The Book Of Wincest
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: This is a tale that spans many years  Pre-series to the end of Season 6 . It's a story of strung together events in Sam and Dean Winchester's lives that shows how, even as brothers, they have always loved each other in ways that were never meant to be.
1. Chapter 1

**The Book Of Wincest**

"Ugh! Gross! You kissed me! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Gah! You don't go kissing your brother on the lips, stupid!"

"Bah?" six-year-old Sammy Winchester asks, with a tilt of his head, as his older brother furiously scrubs at his mouth with the back of a hand. "S'ok, Dean," the boy says, before trying to tackle-hug his brother against the side of the dark blue, pink flowered couch, like some kind of kissy-faced monster. "Kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss-kiss!"

"Dude, stop!" a ten-year-old Dean shouts, immediately pushing his clingy brother away from his beet-red features with both hands to the little guy's scrawny chest. The kid falls back, on his butt — back to the armrest — with a hurt expression on his tiny, round face.

"But…" Sammy says with a pink, pouty lip under his shaggy hair. "Why not? Imma' gonna be your wife when we grow up and get marri—"

"Oh my god!" Dean exclaims, behind a sudden hand slapped over his heated face. Shaking his head, he wonders just where the heck he went wrong in helping to raise the pint-sized fool. Trying to pull himself together, Dean says with his cheeks still slightly inflamed, "Sammy, look, seriously, don't ever say crap like that again."

"Huh? But whyyyyyy?" Sammy whines, his face a veritable picture of annoyed innocence.

"Because!" Dean yells in frustration, like his stupid brother should already know this. (Why doesn't he already know this?) Calming down a little at Sam's sudden flinch, he further explains in a quieter tone, "Sammy, guys don't say stuff like that and they definitely don't kiss. Besides, you're supposed to want to marry a girl, stupid. Not your brother."

Little Sammy wrinkles his nose at the suggestion. It's one that he's never even thought of. After all, being cooped up with his older brother all the time and always having to pack up and leave and change schools, he doesn't know many kids his own age, much less icky girls, but little Sammy's ok with that because all he needs is Dean — his Dean. "Girls are weird. Love _you_. Wanna marry _you_!"

Dean sighs. He figures its best to nip this in the bud, now, before their dad ends up hearing the kid spouting such nonsense. After all, Dean's pretty sure he'd get his ass beat for being guilty by association. (He can just hear it now. _What'd you do to your brother?_) Dean takes a deep breath, trying to scrape up some much needed patience. After putting a hand on Sam's shoulder, he looks him right in the eye and speaks very, very slowly. "I'm. Your. Brother. Idiot." Dropping his hand, he then runs it back through his hair, because, by the look on Sam's face, the kid still doesn't seem to be getting with the program.

"Look, it's alright if you love me," Dean wearily sighs. "I mean, we're family. You're supposed to, but not the way your retarded pea-brain's been thinking. Like I said, we're brothers and you can't go marrying your brother. It's illegal and gross and, dude, all kinds of gay. Besides, dad would totally tan your hide if he heard you talking this way."

"But you're Dean. _My_ Dean." Looking confused, Sammy cautiously asks, "…Why would I get a spanking?"

Dean's a hairsbreadth away from pulling out his hair; it completely shows in his face and voice. "You just will, alright? Geez! Stop asking so many questions!"

"But s'not faiiiiiiiir," Sammy whines, latching onto Dean's side. "Don't wanna like girls. Wanna like _you_."

"Yeah, well, life's not fair. Was it fair when you stole my half of the cookie the front desk lady gave us yesterday?" Dean asks, trying to pry Sam away with a glare. Yeah, he totally checked the cupboard before they started watching cartoons this morning.

Under the weight of his guilt — oatmeal raisin cookies are his favorite — Sammy lets himself be pushed back. Sitting a respectable distance away, he sulkily stares at his idly kicking feet.

Looking at his pitiful brother that surprisingly ended up having a huge, girly crush on him, Dean decides to take pity on the poor soul. After all, what's not to like about himself, right? Sometimes Dean even thinks he's just too awesome for words. It's a curse really. "Look, Sammy," he cajoles, giving a playful yet awkward push to the kid's shoulder. "I don't mind if you love me, but only—Yeah. Only if you love me like you love Dad. Ok?"

"But I love _you_ more," Sammy pouts, still staring at his feet. "Dad's a big meanie."

"Don't say that!" Sammy flinches and Dean wants to kick his own ass. He hadn't meant for his words to come out so harsh. In the end, he ends up soothing the blow by patting the kid's head, not unlike one would do to a sad, little puppy. "Geez, look, if you love me like you say you do, then you'd want to do something to make me happy right?"

Sammy ducks his head. "Yeaaaaaah," he shyly replies, before scooting over and nuzzling into his brother's side not unlike … a happy, little puppy.

Hook, line, and sinker, Dean thinks. "Good, from now on, love me like you do Dad or I won't be happy."

"But Deaaaaan," Sammy whines, flopping into his brother's lap like a baby seal, making Dean wince from the boy's sharp elbows and hips jamming him in places that pretty much hurt.

"Do it or I'm gonna be sad," Dean sternly instructs.

Sammy rolls fitfully around on his brother's jeans-clad thighs for a while, before he finally stills. Face like a spoiled Puffer Fish, he glares at Dean who rolls his eyes. "Fine," Sammy says, before petulantly rolling off his brother. Scooting back to sit in the corner of the couch — furthest away from Dean — he mumbles with crossed arms, "Stupid Dean. Fine. Won't love you anymore at all, stupid. Not even like Dad. You'll just be jerk-face Dean. See how you like that."

Grabbing the remote from the wooden coffee table, in front of them, Dean kicks his feet up on the piece of scratched furniture and sits back to change the channel from G.I Joe to Thundercats. "Yeah, yeah," he says, pointedly not looking at his sulking brother. "Whatever."

Five minutes later, Sammy's back to sitting next to him like a conjoined twin. Dean just shakes his head and slides over. Sammy follows. Dean slides over again. Sammy follows. Dean slides up against his own armrest. Sammy slides into the curve of his hip and hugs his side, like a baby koala bear clinging to so many stalks of bamboo. Knowing the battle has been lost, Dean's head falls back against the cushion with his arms pinned at his sides by his little brother's stupid death grip. When he speaks, it's with a sigh of defeat. "Seriously, just … don't say that crap in front of Dad."

"Okaaay," Sammy replies, already preoccupied with watching cartoons from his place wrapped around his brother.

Awkwardly patting Sammy's head even with the bend of a held down arm, Dean isn't entirely bitter. _Stupid kid, _he thinks with a lopsided grin.

[xx]

Three years later, John Winchester's standing in the middle of their motel, in Madison, Wisconsin. Amongst the sea of light blue, turquoise, and white aquatic colors wallpapering the room, (there's even an underwater mural, on the wall, behind his seated children) he turns stern eyes on his youngest. "Son, I think you need to come with me. Think it's about time we had a little talk."

Sitting at his brother's side with a hand to Dean's uninjured arm, nine-year-old Sam angrily looks up with a glare. "But, Dad, Dean's—!"

As the white ceiling fan swirls above his head, John's face resembles cold stone. After all, he's not the kind of man that deals with sass. "He'll be fine," he gruffly says, before giving his oldest son a pointed look. "Won't you, Dean?"

Laid up on the light blue couch with a broken arm slung up in a cast, thirteen-year-old Dean looks away. "Yeah. I'm good."

He'd fallen out of a tree in the back yard of Pastor Jim's house four days ago. Pastor Jim had rushed him to the hospital with a teary-eyed Sam, who hadn't wanted to leave his brother's side. Their dad, on the other hand, had been furious. Not only had he been forced to put up with one Bobby Singer's constant nagging to ditch the case - leave it to him - and take care of his kid, after looking over his shoulder and reading Jim's text (they'd been partnered together for a vamp-nest hunt), but his oldest son had gotten hurt doing something stupid. Dean had fallen out of a tree trying to get Sam's paper kite he'd made for him.

As their dad ushers his little brother outside their motel room, now, probably across the street to the little park's playground — Sam loves that place — Dean thinks back to his own conversation he'd had with their father. It hadn't been one he'd enjoyed as he'd laid there, in that hospital bed, with Sam crying with guilt outside in the hall. He can still hear his father's words.

"_You're too soft on him, Son. Look at you. Got hurt because of a kite. You're supposed to watch over your brother. Not give in to his every whim. I'm sorry, I know I'm asking something that a father should never have to ask his sons, but I need you two to grow up fast. And Sam can't do that if you're coddling him. Dean, you let him cry. You let him get hurt, but not too hurt. You gotta learn to know when to step back and when to step in. Think you can do that? Think you can let Sam learn to be his own man?"_

_Yes, sir_, he'd said … even if it oddly kind of hurt in a way to promise such a thing.

[xx]

Three more years have come and gone. Once again, the Winchester brothers find themselves in a motel, this time in Mobile, Alabama. Twelve-year-old Sam pauses in his work because of his sixteen-year-old brother. Looking up to the one casting a shadow from the edge of the ivory green bedspread he's sitting on, Sam states plainly, "I'm not a kid anymore, you know. I _can_ do this on my own."

Dean defensively puts his hands up in the air and backs away from the bed filled with their share of the arsenal their dad hadn't taken with him on his hunt. Of course, Sam can break down and clean a few guns on his own; much like Dean, their father had started the kid at a young age. (Not too long after Dean had fallen out of that tree.) Hell, Sam's even shot a few of the weapons he's oil-shined and even helped to take down a few monsters with them to boot. So, of course, Dean knows his help isn't exactly required. He just wanted to make sure the kid didn't forget to grease any trigger pins or realign any sights. …Yeah.

It totally doesn't hurt to actually hear his brother say that he doesn't need him. Nope. It doesn't hurt at all. Sam's growing up. Dean should be proud. He _is _proud. He just… No. He's just being stupid.

"Alright, well," Dean says, trying to brush off the awkward air and his own weird feelings on the subject. "Just rip off another piece of that old t-shirt I gave you. Telling ya', man. Not a clean spot on that one. And try not to bend the wires on the barrel brush too much. You know how Dad gets when shit breaks."

"Yeah, yeah. Thought you were going out?" Sam replies without looking up. His tone isn't belligerent or even angry. It's just plain weary, like the kid's just waiting for him to leave and, yeah, that totally doesn't hurt either. Dean did have plans, but… After looking around the chipped, stucco, ivory walled room, he finds words.

"Thought I'd stay in tonight. Give the ol' liver a night off, you know?" Dean says, patting his side. (He may be sixteen, but his many fake say he's at least twenty-one.)

"Your liver's on the other side, Dean. That's your kidney," Sam rolls off with an equal roll of his eyes.

"I knew that. I was just testing ya. You passed," Dean replies with his best smug grin and a brief lift of his chin.

"Whatever." Sam sets down the polished weapon in his hands and picks up the sheathed, camouflage hunting knife by his knee to sharpen. With the slow, smooth sound of the _shiiiiiick, shiiiiiick, shiiiiiick_ of the blade against the grey block of stone in his other hand, the boy, with his eyes on his work, lazily urges, "You should just go. You told that girl from the movie place that you'd meet up with her later, right? Besides, I'm just gonna head to bed, after I finish this and the rest of my homework, anyway. No reason for you to stick around. Not like I need a babysitter or nothing."

"You trying to get rid of me? Got a hot date you're planning on smuggling in here after I'm gone?" Dean's joke falls flat, especially since Sam just told him what his plans are.

Sam just shakes his head. "Stupid." He might even have rolled his eyes, but the kid's hair's too long to see. "Just go," Sam says, as he continues his work.

As Dean picks up his keys from the bedside table, he suddenly doesn't really feel like meeting Emma-what's-her-face for a date down at the Cineplex anymore. Instead, he has a sudden urge to wet his whistle, down at the corner bar — alone — because there's this odd twinge in his chest that really needs to be numbed. After one last look at a surrounded Sam sitting there working cross-legged on the bed, Dean closes the door behind him. Walking across the lot to the parked Impala, it doesn't bother him at all that Sam hadn't thought to tell him goodbye. How could he? After all, the kid hadn't even looked up.

Sam finally casts his eyes to the closed door as he hears the Impala tear ass out of the parking lot; his Dad's voice echoes once again in his ears as his heart squeezes in his chest.

_You need to stop relying on your brother so much, Sam. You need to learn some self-discipline. You're not doing anything but suffocating Dean by being this way. It's time to grow up and be your own man. You can do that for me, can't you? I need your help here, Son. Dean does too._

[xx]

In Carver, Idaho, fifteen-year-old Sam is sitting in the motel's kitchenette. At the little round table, he's occupying one of three metal folding chairs as he finishes up his American History homework. It's when he turns the page, looking for the answer to number fifteen's question, on his worksheet, and tapping a foot to the tiled floor — to the beat of the music from one of the small earphones attached to an ear — that an nineteen-year-old Dean comes in from his evening run.

While Dean bends over and pants up a storm, Sam juts his chin in a quick greeting and then watches his sweaty brother muster enough energy to straighten-out and then go straight for the fridge. The cool air feels good on Dean's heated, sweat-soaked skin as he opens the door and reaches for a bottle of water. (His drink is sitting beside a mangled, plastic container of bologna that's next to a half-eaten loaf of bread; they're the only items sitting in the otherwise empty fridge.)

Turning away from the image of his brother in a drenched wife-beater and an elastic-waist pair of shorts, the scritch-scritch of Sam's pencil continues across paper. He doesn't look up as he says, "You know, I don't get it."

"What's that?" Dean offhandedly asks, completely preoccupied as he opens the freezer door as well and starts fanning himself with it. (There's only a frostbitten bag of peas someone probably left in there ages ago.)

Finally laying down his writing utensil, Sam sarcastically starts, "I mean, Dad's not even here, but, besides waking me up and forcing me to do my own early morning routine, here you are busting your ass. Why?" Sam doesn't mean to be belligerent, but it's just been pissing him the hell off that Dean never takes his side when it comes to their father. Before the man had left them to their own devices yesterday, Sam had told him that he wanted to join their new school's soccer team. His dad had shut him down completely while Dean just looked away. ...And he knew! Dean _knew_ he'd been looking forward to maybe trying out for some sports this year! Excited about the prospect, he'd chosen to confide in him after all.

"First off, girls shouldn't use that kind of language, _Samantha_, and second, hello, it's called being a good hunter," Dean drawls as he takes another long pull of his drink. Pointedly, he adds, after an appreciative hiss, "Also a good son."

A good son? That right there really gets Sam's heart hammering in his chest. He can't stop his mouth from spewing the hate, not after everything their dad's put them through … and taken away. He's no longer too young to notice their father's shortcomings. He just wishes Dean could see it too. "Yeah? Well, what do you call what Dad does? Call that him being a good father?" Sam mumbles, as he goes back to his homework. Looking down, he winces from the sudden slam of the fridge.

"You know I hate it when you talk about Dad that way," Dean growls low, but still calm, although, admittedly barely just hanging onto the edge of it.

Oh, but Sam knows. Oh, he knows alright. The only reason why he's not constantly getting up in their father's face is because of Dean. But it's becoming harder and harder to keep his feelings over the subject of their livelihood to himself. Be it hormones or just inherited hardheadedness, talking back to their father is steadily becoming something that Sam's getting really good at.

"Sorry," Sam replies, not entirely meaning his words. "It's just… Doesn't it ever get to you? You know, being left alone all the time to,"—quotation marks—"_'look after your brother'_ when Dad doesn't need you to go riding off with him?" That pisses Sam off too, because he's not a kid anymore. Hell, he's been trying to be his own man since the day he was told to. Even so, when his dad's not forcing him out hunting and killing things for experience, their old man still feels the need to always remind Dean to look after him. To Sam, that's a gross double-standard.

After draining his drink and tossing it in the trash, Dean snorts. "Yeah, well, let me tell ya. It can be a serious pain in the ass sometimes. Like now. But it's usually pretty easy to deal with since I can just kick your ass into gear."

"Whatever," is what Dean hears as he next heads into the bathroom for a much-needed shower. In truth, he hates when they argue like this, but it's been happening more and more these days. The kid hasn't even hit full puberty yet. Christ.

As his older brother disappears behind the closed door, Sam shakes his head. He just can't understand why Dean's so blind to their father's faults. To Sam, the man has never had the shine of a hero in his eyes. Not really. He supposes it's because there's always been this taint on their dad from forcing him and Dean to live the life they have to lead. In truth, that dirt mark on his father seems to grow even bigger every time Dean turns from Sam's own personal hero to their father's lackey, in his eyes. _It's Dad's fault,_ Sam thinks. _It's Dad's fault we're like this. It's Dad's fault I don't wanna live like this anymore._

[xx]

Sitting on top of a wooden bench in Bismarck, North Dakota, twenty-two-year-old Dean Winchester shivers from the cold as he stares up at the Northern Lights: the overlaying mixture of green and purple in the night sky that can only be seen in the Midwest. It's a breathtaking sight to behold, but, for Dean, all the air has already been ripped from the world due to his eighteen-year-old brother's sudden _good news_.

Letting out puffs of white as he breathes through his mouth, Dean shoves his cold hands further into his leather jacket's pockets as he hears gravel being crunched underfoot, behind him. He's been waiting for this. It was inevitable after he'd stormed out of their motel room not but ten minutes ago. But it wasn't like he could help it. This isn't a conversation he wants to have. Ever.

"Dean..." The voice, behind, is low and cautious, like the soothing call of a zookeeper to a wild animal that's been recently caged. But Dean doesn't like being handled with kiddy gloves. Never has. Never will. Sam can take his precious acceptance letter and shove it straight up his…

_Can't believe you'd just…_

"Dean… Come on, man. Talk to me."

Dean doesn't turn. He can't. He's got a sudden wild urge to start swinging, to break every frigging bone in Sam's lanky body so the guy can't up and leave him whenever he pleases. And just underneath that violent desire is the want to hug the kid to his chest and tell him how proud he is. But instead of doing anything of the sort, Dean forces his dry, cottony mouth into movement. He says words he doesn't mean, words that cut even him to the bone.

"What's there to talk about, Sammy? Already got your ticket to freedom, right? Don't need my permission." Dean desperately wants this to be the end of their conversation, but his brain can't get his muscles to work. He's not moving; continuing to sit and stare across the stretch of wind-waving, moonlit farm field, behind the motel. Dean's also not a fool. He knows Sam's just going to do what he's recently gotten so good at doing. He's going to push and he's going to push hard. After all, it's what the kid's been doing with their father every chance he can get. Dean figures, why should his treatment be any different?

With his back still to Sam, his brother doesn't disappoint. The anger is there in the kid's voice; it's a bitterness that Dean's heard all too often these days due to what Sam refers to as Dean always taking their father's side on things.

"I can't believe you'd—" Sam bites off the rest of his words and a heavy air just hangs between them; it's choking the life out of the both of them as one sits and one stands — one itching to fight, the other itching to run.

Dean's wonders once again what happened to that cute kid that used to idolize and follow him around. What happened to that little guy that used to cling to him and tell him how much he loved him every second of every hour that he breathed. Back then, it had been annoying as hell, but right now? Right now, Dean would sell his soul if it meant Sam's world would go back to revolving around him enough to make the guy forget this wild fantasy of going off to college and just … stay. Sitting there, Dean's left wondering when things between them had gotten so far off track.

Behind him, Sam breaks through his pained-filled thoughts. "Look, Dean, if you got something to say just say it. I'm all ears."

Dean runs hands back through his hair and shakes his head. Sam doesn't understand. Dean knows whatever his mouth chooses to say won't be the right words. These past few years, finding the right things to say to make everything in Sam's world 'all better' has become an ability that he's somehow lost. So, Dean lies. It's what _he's_ gotten so good at after all.

"Whad' ya want me to say? Huh? That I'm proud?" –_I am, but it hurts too damn much—_ "That I can't wait for you to leave?" —_I don't want you to leave, Sammy. God, please, don't go—_ "Well, sorry, man, might be a dick move on my part, but I don't really friggin care _what_ you do. It's your life. You wanna leave?" —_Don't go— _"Fine. Go. Do what you gotta do." —_Don't listen to me!—_ "I mean, if you don't give a rat's ass about us, then why the hell should I care about you?"

Dean's balled fists in his pockets are shaking and this time not from the cold. But neither one of them notice what with his words still ringing loud and ugly in both their ears.

"See, this is what I'm talking about!" Sam shouts, finally moving around to come face-to-face with Dean. He's pissed and his words tumble out of his mouth, hurried and acidic. "You never even try to take my side! You never even try to understand things from my point of view! I knew it! I fucking knew it! You're just as bad as Da—!" Sam's look of fury dies like a werewolf shot with a silver bullet as he fully takes in his brother's unguarded, broken expression.

Sam sees the rare slip for the briefest of seconds, before Dean feverishly schools his features and finds the will to move, to get up and get the hell away. Keys gripped so tightly in his pocket they're drawing blood, he pushes up from the bench — roughly smacking his shoulder into Sam's during his exit — and then walks away. With hurried strides and a hand rubbing over his face, he heads off in the direction of the front of the motel, to the parking lot where his only means of escape is waiting — his baby.

Sam's too stunned to do anything other than watch his big brother go. As Dean nears the corner of the building, the kid finally finds his voice. Dean can hear him calling out his name. It even sounds more than a touch sorrowful, but Dean doesn't stop. He can't. He needs space. He can't handle any more of this shit right now. He's feeling too betrayed, too hurt, too devastated, too raw and exposed. The only thing he says in parting is a few choice words said over his shoulder, because no way is he coming back that night. He'll roll back in with the dawn, but not before. He just … can't.

"Don't wait up."

Sam watches Dean go with mixed feelings. A part of him tries to tell himself that maybe this is a good thing since he's finalized his decision to go off to college. Maybe it's better to part like this since they're obviously going to have to cut ties. (If Dean's acting like this, he knows there's no way their father is going to just take the news in stride.) However, a larger part of Sam can't get that tortured look of his brother's out of his mind, especially since he's never seen Dean look that way. Not even when they hadn't been able to save those two little girls during that hunt last year that had gone as wrong as wrong can get.

_M' sorry, man. It's not really your fault, but I can't stay. This life just isn't for me and I just wish … I just wish you'd want something more for yourself. You deserve it too._

[xx]

Even with the windows rolled up, the smell of rain lingers wet and cool in the air from the vehicle's open vents. Droplets of water bead the hood of the parked Impala as a twenty-five-year-old Dean Winchester sits behind its wheel. He and his treasured baby are safely out of the elements and out of sight, taking refuge in Harris and Stover Law Firm's parking garage in Palo Alto, California. (It's a tall building with many floors and lots of traffic — the perfect place to use as camouflage.)

From his vantage point, he can clearly see the bookstore, across the street, with its hand-painted sign reading _open _hanging on its glass door. (The garage's yellow ticket booth and its matching yellow and white horizontal barricade only slightly obscure his view.) Thankfully, the entire store front is made of glass and, through it, Dean can see the familiar, too tall, shaggy-haired figure behind the counter who's busy ringing up a young, smiling redhead's purchase.

_Sammy boy, how've you been?_

Sam's been working at Henry's Books for the past year and a half now. Or at least this is where Dean had followed him to last year when he'd come to _visit_ then as well. And just like every annual trip he's made to this particular town, the urge to get out of the car and do two things eats at Dean's insides like a poisonous cancer as he stares at his oblivious brother. Feeling so many emotions that make him hurt and proud at the same time, the urge to walk in there and beat Sam's ass, throw him in the car, duck tape him to the seat, and speed off grips Dean's guts like a vice. But then there is that other urge he has, the less violent one. The one that makes him want to walk in there, all smiles, and hug the stuffing out of his brother until Sam pushes him away and tells him to get lost … or asks him to stay.

Dean doesn't even waste time contemplating what he'd say if Sam did ask him to stick around. From the digital clock on the dash and the dwindling light from the sun peeking through the darkened clouds, it's getting close to closing time — Sam's — and Dean still has so many miles to go before he can pick up that hunt out in Warchett, Oregon he's supposed to be on. It's funny how Dad always finds an excuse to send him out west during this particular time of year, instead of taking the hunt himself. But Dean's not complaining. He's too busy trying to shut up the voices in his head screaming, "_Don't! Stop! Don't go! Go talk to him!_" as he pulls out of the garage and onto the road, after Sam walks off into the back area of the shop.

Leaving his oblivious little brother behind, Dean can't help but look in the review mirror, wondering if life will continue to be this way. The thought alone makes his heart hurt and his eyes water. As he blasts through a stop light with the roar of the engine revved loud in his ears and the splash of muddy water soaking his baby's sides, his cheeks may or may not be wet with the salty taste of regret.

[xx]

The apartment a twenty-six-year-old Dean Winchester just broke into is homey. It's filled with various knickknacks, on mantels, and so many photos of a carefree Sam, on its tables and walls, that it makes that scabbed wound in Dean's heart fester and bleed. Picking up a tan, wooden picture frame engraved with the word _LOVE _down the left side, he can't remember his brother ever looking so relaxed and open. He's also never seen Sam with his arm hooked around a girl's shoulders before, especially not one that looks like a blonde model with enough brains to match her beauty.

_You sly dog_, Dean can't help but think. However, the smile reflected in the frame's glass never reaches his eyes, because all evidence points to the fact that Sam's been doing just fine without him. But, of course, this information is something that Dean already knows from his secret, annual check-ins. However, it's just more of a kick to the stomach now that he's actually seeing snippets of Sam's life other than on street corners or through glass windows and there's a lot of them scattered throughout the home.

It's painful to Dean and for so many reasons. The foremost because the only picture he has of Sam is the one of them — as kids — when they were holding up the day's catch while their dad had sat on the Impala, after having stopped to fish at that crappy lake in Delcut, Montana. It's a creased photo that still resides in the back of his wallet. (It's also a captured memory that he sometimes takes out and stares at when the drink makes him nostalgic — at least three times a week for the past few years, but nobody needs to know that.)

After passing into another darkened room filled with unfamiliar things, in the next second, amongst the shadows, Dean's fending off fists to his face and knees to his spleen. The moves are familiar, a mirror to his own brand of rugged Winchester training. When he finally puts his faceless assailant on his back, Dean can't help but smile. There he is, his Sammy, panting with a hilariously shocked expression painted all over his sweating features. (Kid's obviously out of practice.) For Dean, it feels so damn good to see his geeky brother and actually have the guy looking back at him for once.

_Heya, Sammy. Goddamn. It's good to see you, man, _he wants to pull Sam to his chest and say, but he doesn't. Little Sammy's grown. He's a man now. Got a job, a girlfriend and even his own place. Even if all Dean wants to do is bury his face in the guy's neck and drown himself in that familiar scent he hasn't smelled in years, he won't. …He can't. So, instead, Dean just grins his best cocky grin and throws out a taunt about Sam getting rusty. It suddenly feels like old times … even if it's not.

With the air knocked from his lungs from their roles suddenly being reversed, Dean still can't help but think…

_Fuck, man, missed you so much._

As for Sam, he's grateful to see his brother too, even if a larger part of him isn't. He's got a new life now. It took a while, but the taste of normal sits well on his tongue. He doesn't want to give this up … even for his family. Not even for the guy who used to be his mom, dad, brother, best friend, worst enemy and hero all rolled into one. "What're you doing here, Dean?"


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, driving down the darkened street, away from Sam's apartment, Dean scrubs the back of his knuckles into his eyes. They itch from having driven all night. They're not wet. Dammit, they're not. So what if he'd had to once again let Sam go. They survived the hunt – ghostly woman in a white dress — and it's not Sam's business if their dad's still M.I.A. Guy has an interview on Monday. His future on a plate he'd said.

_Why the fuck is that shit so goddamn important?_ _Why the hell can't you just stay and ride shotgun with me? Fuck college! Why the hell do you always gotta be so friggin selfish?_ ,,,After a moment of deep seething, Dean angrily shakes off the thoughts that make him sound like a whiny brat. He's a man and Sam's his brother, another guy just trying to lead his own life. Dean knows this and a part of him — a very small part — even understands Sam's decision. But the feeling's there, in the pit of his stomach, regardless, as he takes the right at the light that will allow him to circle back to Sam's current humble abode.

Unfortunately, since the kid was born, it's like gravity's been continuously screwing with Dean. The reality is that that magnetic pull the guy always had on him seems to have gotten even worse after they'd actually seen each other and talked. Dean just can't seem to stay away, even when he knows it's what Sam wants. But that case… Side-by-side, they'd managed to finish the hunt and for once without the gruff guidance of their father. They worked so damn well together too. It felt so good, so damn _right_ to have Sam sitting next to him in the car, watching his back, just breathing the same air.

Dean always knew it would. ...Being able to ride alone is one thing and being able to work alongside his dad is another, but, dammit. What Dean wants, what he's _always_ wanted was a partner — the only hunting partner that would ever fit the bill. Sam. …_Godammit!_ _Couldn't you see? Couldn't you just feel how awesome we were together? How great we could be?_

However, when Dean rolls down the now familiar street his eyes zero in on Sam's apartment window and he's no longer thinking about how he and Sam had just ... clicked. Instead, he's too busy feeling panicked, because that's fire inside the otherwise darkened building. Throwing the car into park, in the middle of the street, and all but jumping out of the opened door, a switch flips back on inside Dean. His anger completely vanishes and in its wake protective big brother mode is in full effect.

_Shit! Sammy! Hold on! I'm coming!_

_[xx]_

The drive is quiet — too quiet — but Dean's not about to turn up the music. It's been days since they both saw Jessica Moore burn up on that ceiling and Sam's finally fallen asleep for more than an hour at a time. The sun is high in the sky, at the noon position, as Dean looks over to his little brother, who isn't so little anymore. After a moment of quiet perusal, Dean's brows draw together as he goes back to concentrating on the road. Its guilt he feels, a twisting, burning acidity in his guts. It's a sense of shame that makes his curled fingers grip the steering wheel hard. The kid lost his mom, possibly his dad, and now his girl… Dean tries to keep his eyes on the road, but they keep unconsciously floating back to his bother.

_Wanted you with me, man, but not like this. Never like this. Fuck. M' so friggin sorry, Sammy._

[xx]

Months later, they still haven't found their dad, but they followed another vision. Sam's vision. The guy is actually having fucking visions now. After leaving Max Miller's house and while heading across the street to the Impala, Dean shakes his head with one slow movement. "You're not gonna turn out like that." He'd almost been shot in the head by a levitating gun when he'd moved in front of the kid's step-mother. Yeah, their job just keeps getting weirder and weirder. (And now Sam's got some freaky powers, another variation of what he and Stanley Kubrick likes to call The Shining.)

"How can you be so sure?" Sam argues. He doesn't know how Dean can be so certain when he, himself, isn't positive of anything, especially when he'd moved that cabinet with his mind. (Sam makes a mental note to tell Dean about that later. Way later.) It had been to save Dean's life of course, but he'd just found out that he has the same power as a boy who'd been hell bent on using it to take out his entire abusive family — even the ones who hadn't touched him but had chosen to look the other way. (It's not like Sam can't sympathize with such a tragedy, but, to him, bloody murder is never the answer.)

"I just know," Dean reassures in that tone that does nothing but raise Sam's hackles.

Seriously, Sam doesn't understand Dean sometimes. Sure, he himself had said that they were lucky they had Dad or things could have gone south fast, but… "Why? Because of Dad?" Sam throws back. He can't help the bite of anger lacing his voice. How can Dean be so sure? Just how? _How?_ "Well, sorry to break it to you, Dean, but Dad's not here."

"No, not Dad," Dean says, catching his brother's eyes over the hood of the Impala and holding them.

"Then why?" Sam angrily demands.

And then Dean says four words that almost blow him away. "Because you've got me."

They bowl Sam over alright, make him foolishly stand there and stare, because, even after being so suddenly thrust back together, Sam wasn't so sure where he stood with Dean. After all, there's always been this underlying anger, this resentment, this volatile friction between them… Or was that just him? Sam's not sure, but he's absolutely certain about one thing. From the look in his brother's eye and the tone of the guy's voice, Dean positively believes in his words … and they suddenly make Sam want to believe in them — in _him_— as well.

Opening the door and sliding behind the wheel, Dean ignores the lapse in time it takes Sam to open his own door and pour himself into his seat. Putting the key in the ignition, Dean tries to push away the hurt from having to say something that's been so blatantly obvious to him. After all, their dad did his best, but he wasn't the one who'd always been there for Sam, who'd taken care of him, listened to him bitch and whine, kept him on the straight and narrow. It was Dean. _Always has been and always will be_, he thinks.

Dean doesn't look at his brother as he takes his baby out of park and rolls her away from the curb. But he can feel the continuous heat of Sam's stare. It doesn't make him the least bit uncomfortable as he rolls through a stoplight. …It doesn't, because his words are the honest to god truth. _Not gonna let anything bad happen to you, idiot. I got you're back. Always will._

[xx]

Almost a year and some change down the road, months after they'd finally found their father and ultimately ended up burning his wrapped body on a funeral pyre, Sam's cold form is lying motionless on a dirty, lumpy mattress with no sheets, blankets or pillows to its name. Dean's sitting on a rickety, wooden chair some feet away that's overlooking the side of the bed. There's no glow of electricity in the ramshackle house he'd found out in the middle of the woods; there's only the light from the moon coming in through the glassless windows.

Dean's head is bowed and he's wishing he felt dead inside, but, unfortunately, nothing is the last thing he feels. There's too much pain, too much regret, too much despair melting his insides and making it run, hot and wet, down his face. _Mom's gone, Dad's gone and now Sammy's gone._ Sam was the last person he had left in this entire world and he'd…

"I messed up," Dean croaks. "I had one job and I screwed it up. How can I live with myself after…?"

_Said I'd always take care of you, that I'd keep you safe … and look. I let you down I—I let you die. …Somehow, someway, I should have been there. Should have gotten there sooner. I could've stopped that friggin bastard. I could have—You wouldn't— …You can't leave me, Sammy. I just got you back, man. We were a team. You and me. Don't you leave me again, Sammy! Dammit, no!_

"No,"Dean growls as he gets up and violently pushes away from the chair. "Not like this."

Grabbing his keys, Dean roughly pulls on his jacket and heads for the door. It's like he was a doomed man circling the drain and now he's found his saving handhold. He's not going to let things end like this. He can't, because if Sam's dead then so is he. Outside, the fog of the night clings to his clothes and skin, makes his sweat-laced flesh clammy as he yanks open the car door and flings himself behind the wheel, thinking: _You're all—We're all we've ever had, man. I can't—I won't—Fuck! This ain't happening! I won't let it!_

With the engine roaring beneath him, like a tiger let out of her cage, Dean peels out of the abandoned house's gravel driveway intent on finding salvation by hellfire. A part of Dean realizes how selfish this is, especially after the way he'd felt when their Dad had done the same thing for him. But another part of Dean shouts how this is different. It is, dammit! He's not doing this for the same reasons that their dad had, a man that may have loved him, but still wanted someone else to be alive to either save or kill Sam if the guy went dark side, because their father knew he could never do it himself.

No. There is no shady agenda to this decision. Dean's going to make this deal because, in that moment, he'd rather burn in hell for all eternity than walk this earth without...

_I need you, Sammy. I can't—I won't—I just need you, man. I'm friggin sorry._

[xx]

"It's a year or nothing, Dean. I'm afraid, all things considered; it's the best deal you could possibly get. I suggest you take it," the crossroads demon says eloquently yet harshly at the same time. Dean hates her silky voice, hates her beautiful yet twisted face under those glossy, black waves of hair. He wishes he could shut her up permanently, put a bullet right through her brain, but he can't. He needs the bitch's help. He'll dance with this devil for his brother's sake. It's the least he can do since he's failed in his duty to protect Sam, since he can't seem to think straight or even breathe right without him.

"I'll take it," Dean says, before grabbing the red-eyed bitch and tasting her forked tongue to seal the deal. She's all poisonous honey and he can't wait to pull away. A year with Sam. That's all that matters. It's enough. …It has to be.

[xx]

A few days later, the demon-bastard that's plagued their family for so many years has finally been dealt with — a colt-special bullet right between its yellow eyes courtesy of Dean. Ellen's gone home and Bobby's gone to sleep. It's just Sam and Dean awake in the room given to them on the top floor of the Singer house that sits like a sturdy weathervane for all the hunters of the world.

"Can't sleep?" Sam asks from his place laid out on the single cot beside his brother's own unfolded bed.

"Nah," Dean replies, staring at the shadowed ceiling overhead. "Too wired, ya know? Still can't believe that yellow-eyed son-of-a-bitch is dead. Even got to see Dad."

"Yeah."

"Where do you suppose he's gone?" Dean can't help but ask. The question's been dancing on the tip of his tongue since they'd watched their father's smiling form just shimmer and disappear. He hopes the answer is heaven, even if he's not so sure such a place exists. What kind of God would just let this kind of shit keep happening to his 'children' after all?

"I don't know," Sam replies and then changes the subject to something that _he_still can't let go of. "But what about you? …I mean, you know, in a year."

"Sam," Dean says in warning. He doesn't want to have this conversation again. He doesn't want to think about his situation. Not now. It'll ruin the mood. He's still high from their hard-scraped win — if he can call it that — to let the fear inside.

"It's just… I won't let you. You know that right?" Sam doesn't want to argue. He just wants Dean to know that everything's going to be ok, because he'll step up to the plate. This time, he'll play the hero.

"I know." Dean appreciates his brother's words, but deep down he knows it's inevitable; after all, there is no breaking this deal. Not if Sam wants to continue breathing and that's exactly what Dean's sacrificed himself for. Dean won't allow Sam to do anything that fucks that up. But he'll go along with the charade for right now. A year seems like such a long way off anyway. Right now, Dean still feels like he's on top of the world. …But then he remembers Sam's words from months earlier. Sam had once talked about trying to rebuild a life, separate from hunting, after the thing that killed Mom and Jess was dead.

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean tries to nonchalantly question.

"Yeah?"

Dean has to swallow around a sudden lump in his throat to speak. "This mean you're gonna stick around for awhile? I mean, the fucker's dead and all and, sure, we popped the cap on the hellgate and let out a couple baddies—"

"A few hundred," Sam pointedly reminds.

"—but that don't mean you gotta be the one to put 'em back."

"I don't?" Sam incredulously replies, turning over on his side to face Dean. Dean continues to stare at the ceiling as he hears his brother angrily hiss; its relief he feels even as Sam continues to sound pissed. "Dean, what part of I'm a part of this don't you understand? Besides, I'm definitely not going anywhere as long as you're sorry ass is still heading down south." After a moment, he settles back on his back and adds much quieter. "We're in this together, man. …You and me."

_Yeah,_ Dean thinks as he finally turns to Sam, who is now staring back at him with a softness in his eyes that almost resembles a look he hasn't seen in years. Not since the kid used to cling to him and tell him that he…Suddenly flooded with warmth and with the corner of his mouth pulling back into a grin, Dean has to admit that, right now, it feels like selling his soul was completely worth it.

_You and me…_

"Sounds good," Dean murmurs, before forcing himself to turn away. Hours later, he finally falls asleep, but his back is no longer to his brother. His lids finally close while quietly staring at an already sleeping Sam.

[xx]

Several months later, after Dean's had a lot of fun crammed in between hunts — more chicks, booze, and greasy food than was good for his health — the Impala prowls a darkened highway with her two passengers angry as fuck.

"Must have been shooting some pretty evil cans there, Sammy," Dean sarcastically remarks, as he keeps eyes to the road, driving to yet another evil infested town that they've never been to before. Dean's problem? Dean's problem is the already low ammunitioned colt's missing a bullet, but he already has half a mind as to where it's gone.

In the passenger seat, Sam cracks, speaking of the crossroads demon he'd shot last night (while his brother had supposedly been sleeping) in an unsuccessful attempt to try to get Dean out of his deal. "Bitch was mouthy."

"This isn't a game, Sam!" Dean immediately rages. "You do anything to renege on this deal and you stop breathing and that ain't happening. You understand me? I'm not kidding here, Sam. You hear me?"

"I hear you," Sam reluctantly says with much bitterness. After a quiet pause filled with tension of the thickest kind, he adds, "But no matter what you say, I know you don't wanna go to hell, Dean. I wish you… I wish you wouldn't lie about that."

"Sam, I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," Sam determinately insists. "I know you and you're afraid, man. This is how you act when you're scared out of your mind and I don't blame you. You don't deserve to go to hell. …Not because of me."

"Was my choice," Dean says heavily, effectively ending their conversation that was stilted to begin with. All Dean wants to do is enjoy the time left to him, enjoy it with Sam and not fucking argue every couple of minutes over things that can't be changed. Sure, Dean's scared. In all honesty, he's frigging terrified, but he's made his bed and now he has to lie in it. Six months. ...Six more months with Sam.

[xx]

After a group of Lilith's minions ambushed them during a routine hunt that had nothing at all to do with demons — haunting in a basement — Dean's hopped up on pain meds chased with a few shots of whiskey. Really, how a group of them happened to find them doing a little salt and burn action in Minnesota's Holy Cross Cemetery, Dean doesn't know. But the bastards had and now he's got a stab wound in his side and three broken ribs, not to mention an ass load of scrapes and bruises from being tossed around like a rag doll.

Needless to say, in their motel room, Dean's barely lucid as Sam hovers over him with his brother's bloodied hands working to patch up the gash above his left hip. For Sam's part, he's much less worse for wear with only minor injuries: a gash above his left brow and a few sore knuckles. One month. One fucking month left with Sam. Down to the wire now, it doesn't feel like there's enough time to do and say all the things Dean wants to; hazily staring up at Sam's concentrating face as he stitches up his side, some of those things tumble out of Dean's lax lips completely unchecked.

"Love … you … man."

Dean barely recognizes his own voice; it's a cracked, rough baritone that sounds all too hoarse, too foreign in his ears. Had he really just told Sam he loves him? …Well, so what? He does. He's his little brother after all. Family's allowed to say it every once in a while, right? Besides, he's going to… He won't be… He won't be around to tell him it much longer, so what's it hurt to say it now?

Through the blurry cloud obscuring his vision, Dean watches Sam pause in his work to look up at him. A few scant seconds tick by as they stare at each other, before Sam remembers what he's supposed to be doing. Going back to the bloody task at hand — making Dean wince from the pain of pulled thread through tender flesh — Sam finally murmurs his reply. "I know, Dean. I know. …You don't have to say it."

"Want … to," Dean's mouth fumbles out for him and, yeah, he does. Besides, he's too exhausted — mentally and physically — to frigging care. "Should … before … before…"

At his sudden dark turn in thoughts, liquid terror leaks down Dean's spine and taloned fingers grip and pierce his heart; it feels like the cold hand of death that perpetually follows him wherever he goes. It makes his eyes water and his mortal coil feel like it's already swimming in the river Styx. One month left. One frigging month left with Sam … before hellfire melts his skin and licks his bones clean of both fat and gristle. The morbid image alone is enough to make him want to vomit up every ounce of hope he's desperately been holding onto.

Thankfully, Sam tugs on the threaded needle a little too hard with his anger, effectively drawing his brother out of whatever terror-stricken stupor he'd unwittingly started to drown himself in. Back to the present, Dean winces again as he hears Sam growl, "You're not gonna die, dammit! Not from this and not from some goddamn invisible hellhounds ripping you apart either! I keep telling you, Dean. I'm not gonna let that happen!"

"…Month … left … Sammy." Dean automatically replies, because, really, has he forgotten?

"I know," Sam grumbles, as he searches the bed for the scissors to cut the end of the string. (No way could he ever forget.) Gripping the instrument by its plastic handles, he snips off what he doesn't need, letting some of his hair dangle in his eyes — hiding them. It's when he's dabbing at the freshly sutured wound, that he's doused with whiskey, that he steels himself. And then he's looming over Dean's prone form, saying with every ounce of certainty he can muster, "Even so, man, you're my brother. I'm gonna save you, ok? I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. You gotta believe that."

With Sam so close like this, Dean can see his brother's features without the obscuring fog. There's that softness to the guy's face again. It's an expression that Dean suddenly craves to touch, to feel under his hands that have come up from their place on the bed of their own accord. It's when his fingertips brush over the soft stubbly skin of Sam's jaw (_Yep, no longer smooth like a kid's_) that Dean feels something new. Even under his medicated haze, he still recognizes the sudden foreign desire that feels so very … _wrong_.

Seconds drag into minutes that seem to drag into hours as Dean lies there, propped up on two pillows, with his dirty, black tee cut up and exposing the freshly stitched wound on his side. He can't bring his hands away from Sam's face and he's trying. God is he trying. Dean's left praying that Sam will move away, pull back, do _something_, because if he doesn't… If his brother continues to stay this close to him, Dean's not so sure he can fight back all these feelings that are too much like a surprise sucker punch to both the stomach and heart.

It's not… Even in that moment, it's not something physical that keeps Dean glossing over Sam's features and staring at his mouth. Not really. This sudden, unflinching desire to show Sam how much he actually means to him, how much he needs him, how much he'll miss him, how much he's afraid to leave him behind has more of an emotional foundation. There is no lust, no blinding attraction, just a very strong sense of something that is unmistakably, irrevocably love. Even still, it's the wrong kind of affection to have for his brother and Dean can't help but feel dirty while in its unyielding embrace. Every instinct he has says to rage against it … and so he does.

_Don't do this_! _You're just half out of your mind because of the whiskey and meds! Let him go! He's your friggin brother! For fuck's sake! Don't ruin the time you have left with him! Don't give these bastards a real reason to send your sorry ass to hell! Don't do it! Fucking stop! I said fucking stop!_

For all his internal ranting, it's Sam who finally breaks their frozen spell. Be it shock or disgust or something else entirely, a blank-faced Sam slowly folds Dean's fingers down from his face, inevitably lowering his brother's hands back to the bed. It's when the guy takes his own hands off Dean that Sam says with a carefully neutral voice that flays his brother open even as it tries to save his soul, "You should get some rest."

Shamefully turning his head on his pillows, Dean's never been more grateful and more heartsick in his entire life. As he avidly looks away from the blurry image of Sam quietly packing up the medic kit on the edge of the bed, he squeezes his eyes shut and internally curses out a loud fuck, because he feels shameful, dirty, and disappointed all at the same time; it's a confusing state of mind that leaves him with nothing but questions. How the hell did this shit happen? How the fuck hadn't he noticed before? What the fuck is wrong with him?

In the end, Dean's never been so glad to feel the strong pull of the sandman calling him home. His last thoughts before drifting off to sleep are: _We're family, dammit. Ain't nothing ever gonna change that. Won't let him down like that. Never like that. Never._

[xx]

One month has almost come and gone; in mere minutes, Dean's deal is about to come full circle and Sam is five shades of frantic in the face of the very real possibility that he could end up losing his big brother that night.

"Ok, you win," Sam swiftly turns and says to a blonde-haired Ruby. "What do I have to do?"

In the middle of a cozy living room, the she-demon in sheep's clothing tilts her head; in front of a fireplace, she's looking at him like he's lost his mind. "What do you mean?"

"To save Dean!" Sam shouts. He doesn't have time for her lapse in memory, because the minutes are steadily bringing them closer to midnight and they've already failed to kill the black-eyed bitch holding his brother's contract — Lilith; her smoke-like essence had fled from the little girl's body she'd inhabited seconds before Dean had gotten to her and the poor kid's terrified mother, in the bedroom upstairs. "What do you need me to do?" Sam quickly questions.

It's then that Dean comes up from behind him from his place out in the hall. He immediately tries to shut Sam up by grabbing onto his arm, snapping. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

Sam animatedly pushes him off with a, "Just shut up for a second," before turning back to his last resort. "Ruby—"

Furious, Ruby cuts him off. "You had your chance! You can't just flip a switch! We needed time!"

Sam shakes his head, not wanting to believe her words. "Well, there's gotta be something! Some way! Wha-Whatever it is I'll do it!"

Dean grabs onto Sam again, but Sam's not having it. Time's almost up, but he's not about to just call it in. He can't. He _won't_. Not even if everything and everyone else says he should. "Don't—Dea—! I'm not gonna let you go to hell, Dean!"

"Yes you are!" Dean shouts back, equally frantic. Looking his brother's anxious features over, he repeats in a much calmer tone that barely hides his own fear. "Yes you are." Shaking his head, he adds sorrowful yet certain, "…I'm sorry. I mean, this is all my fault. I know that. But what you're doing? It's not gonna save me. It's only gonna kill you."

That's not a good enough answer for Sam. It's not. Then again, nothing ever will be, not if it means he loses Dean like this. God, not like this… Not this way… No... "What am I supposed to do?" Sam asks with a bad-tempered tone that's marred by his burning eyes and clogged throat. The truth hurts too much. It hurts so much he can't even breathe.

"Keep fighting," Dean tells him, because that's what he wants. Their enemies might have gotten to him, but they won't have Sam. Never Sam. Dean wants his brother to protect himself, to continue their work, to do what he couldn't do when Sam had died back on that fateful day a year ago — go on without him. In that respect, Sam's always been the stronger one; the guy doesn't need Dean like Dean needs him. Deep down in his heart, Dean's always known it to be true. …He also realizes now that its part of the reason why he's the one stuck with the fucked up hidden feelings and Sam's still squeaky clean. But Dean doesn't dwell on what can't be changed. He doesn't have time to.

Instead, he says, "Take care of my wheels. Sam, remember what Dad taught ya. Kay?" Sam nods. "And remember what I taught you." Sam nods again and tries to force a smile that Dean tries to return, but it's too painful, takes too much goddamn effort.

And like the gong that means hell has come to collect its prize, the grandfather clock against the far wall chimes with its hands pointing at midnight. The overwhelming fear of death is there, but so is the pain. The pain of knowing he'll never see Sam again. His only consolation in that fact is that, if he never lays eyes on Sam again, at least that means his brother will have made it to a place Dean was never meant to go. (Not if he loves his brother in the way that he can no longer deny.) No. At least it will mean Sam can be with their mother and father if they too have been invited into the pearly gates of Heaven.

The clock continues to ring out and Dean's eyes float from the damning chimes to his brother. One last time, he tries to put his game face on, a desperate attempt to try to set his brother at ease, but it doesn't come out right. It can't when Sam's looking at him with that familiar softness in his eyes and those damn tear tracks running down his cheeks.

Looking at his brother, with their gazes locked like this, the sick urge to do what he had wanted to a month ago surfaces inside Dean's heart, like a wild beast thrashing to get out. But another animal beats it to the call. The howl of a hellhound is clearly heard and Dean turns to see it, in all its grotesque, putrid glory, growling from the door leading into the family dining room. And just like that, he can already feel the sharp blade of the Reaper's scythe closing in around his neck.

_I guess this is it…_Even frozen in his spot, heart thumping, and scared shitless, Dean's eyes still track one last time to his brother. _Fuck_._Sam._


	3. Chapter 3

A few minutes later, thanks to Lilith taking it over and then ultimately bailing when she couldn't kill the youngest Winchester like she had planned, Ruby's meat-suit is growing ever colder, in the middle of the suburban family's den. But Sam only has eyes for his ripped up brother, whose insides are hanging out due to the sharp claws and dripping maw of a malicious hellhound. Cradling Dean's bloodied, lifeless form, he rocks back and forth on the hardwood floor as the anguish pours out of him — hot and bitter. Not enough time. Never enough time. So many things left unsaid. So many things left undone.

_I couldn't save you. Oh, god, I couldn't save you. Look at what that bitch did to you. No. I did it, because you did this for me and I still couldn't save you. Dean, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, man. Don't leave me. Dean, don't leave me like this. Dean, please!_

The blood from Dean's cradled body is beginning to set on both Sam's saturated shirt and pants. The outer edges of the deep crimson-black stains that now cover 85 percent of his torso and lap are turning a brownish-red rust color as the jean and cotton materials begin to stick-stick-stick to the skin of his stomach, chest, and thighs. However, Sam just sits there and lets it dry, because, even with the body in his arms growing colder by the second, he just can't seem to let go.

_"Dean…"_

Wet face buried in his brother's hair, arms wrapped around the one who he'll never hear utter the hated nickname 'Sammy' again, Sam Winchester is like a weeping, mournful child; one that's desperately holding onto something akin to a dirty, ripped up yet completely cherished teddy bear that has always been his best friend and everything else in between. He doesn't know what to do without it and so he doesn't let go. Even when Bobby Singer finally comes and tries to talk some sense into him and also tries to haul him up, Sam fights against the hold that tries to tear him from what he doesn't want to believe is unfortunately ... lost.

[xx]

Under a full moon, the sound of a shovel digging into hard earth can be heard. It's the loudest sound in the darkened wood that's alive with the chirping of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl. Sam Winchester's eyes are wet and shining in the glow of an oil lamp he'd found in the Impala's trunk. Knee-deep in dirt and lit up by the meager bit of yellow illumination, he's digging a grave for the one whose body lays forever still at his back. The final piece of his family. The one he'd just lost. His brother Dean.

Bobby Singer pauses with his own shovel in his hands. Wiping his brow and replacing the cap on his head, the bearded man tries again to make the younger man see reason. "Son, I still don't think burying him is such a—"

"Either help or leave. Either way's fine with me."

Bobby sighs. He knows the kid doesn't mean to be so harsh with his words. After all, Sam's just lost his last remaining kin, the one who'd offered himself up a year ago so he could live. Bobby knows how this must be eating Sam up inside. So, he merely sighs, before digging back into his part of the hole they're standing in.

As for Sam, he doesn't mean to be such an ass, but he's barely keeping himself together. After all, how's a guy supposed to feel when he's burying his big brother, the one who encompassed his entire world when he was just a kid? True, he'd been forced to grow out of that phase before he'd even reached his teens, due to their dad's influence; but Dean was always that presence, that handhold that kept him steady.

Even when he went off to college, whenever he thought he couldn't handle something, whenever he felt too afraid he'd fail, he always heard Dean's voice in the back of his mind telling him, "_Sammy, you're a Winchester and my little brother. Know what that means? Means ain't nothing you can't do." _It's the same voice he'd heard when he'd mustered up enough courage to apply to Stanford, when he'd first grown enough balls to first talk to Jess.

_But I couldn't save you_, Sam angrily thinks once again. He's forced to drag a dirty forearm across his eyes — inadvertently smudging dirt across the bridge of his nose — before he's able to go back to what he was doing. Everything of Sam's hurts: his back from bending over, his hands due to shoveling, his feet from being on them for so long, and his heart and soul because of Dean. Sam's eyes water over and he angrily wipes at them again and again. He doesn't know how he's going to continue on without Dean, but he'll try if only so he can find a way to bring his brother back.

_I'm not giving up, man. I can't. It's why I won't burn your body. You're gonna need it when—when I bring you back. I'll bring you back. I have to. I can't—I can't do this without you, Dean. ….I just—I just need you._

Sam's forced to wipe at his face again and Bobby never comments. The man just keeps his eyes on his own work and Sam's more than grateful.

[xx]

In Tesla, Wyoming, Sam furiously gets out of the Impala. It's been almost an entire fucking month and not one. Not one fucking demon wants to deal. And he's been all over, tried every crossroads he'd come across, used every line on those bastards, used every lure, but nothing. Earth's become his living hell and still these fuckers won't give him an inch, won't give him Dean. Opening his motel room door, Sam freezes.

"Aw, Sammy, what's wrong?" says the devil herself. She's got long black hair instead of blonde this time, but he knows who it is. He can tell by her smug smile and that sarcastic twinkle in her black eyes. So, he gets her back but not…?

Shaking his head, brushing past Ruby and speaking of the nickname he once used to hate, he growls, "You—Don't you—No … No one gets to call me that."

_Not anymore, _Sam thinks and it kills him to know just how true that thought is really turning out to be.

[xx]

A few hours later, at the promise of teaching Sam how to hone his psychic skills, in revenge against Lilith, Ruby had headed out of the motel, directly toward the Impala with eager eyes and a curled lip. With that sorry excuse for an older brother gone, she was oh so looking forward to testing out the limits to that sweet ass ride. However, as she neared the door, those eager eyes of hers stretched wide in alarm from a sudden loud and angry outburst from behind.

"What do you think you're doing!"

Ruby saunters back from the Impala's driver side door with hands sarcastically held up defense. "Whoa there, big guy, don't know what you're getting all bent out of shape about. It was only a thought."

"Yeah, well," Sam says, all but shouldering her out of the way, "no one drives her but me."

"So it's a she is she?" Ruby mockingly asks, while walking around the front of the parked car that she'll no longer get a chance to feel what it's like behind its wheel.

Paused with the door open, Sam rubs a hand to the Impala's black, shiny hood with a gentleness in both his face and touch that he hasn't used in so many weeks. "Always has been."

…_Just like you'll always be Dean's. I'm just borrowing you for a while. Aren't I, girl?_

_[xx]_

A week and three days later finds Sam and Ruby ending a bit of training, inside Carol's Diner, at a little past midnight. "We make a good team, huh?" Ruby asks rather lightheartedly as she flicks demon blood off her blade. It lands on the already blood-splattered, tiled floor where three bodies lie dead as doornails at her feet, in between the counter and a couple of vinyl booths.

"We're not a team," Sam tightly reminds her. He's greatly perspiring from his place, between the backside of the counter and the kitchen area, after using his budding powers to draw out the demon's black essence from the unconscious, innocent woman lying at the tips of his own toes.

Ruby snorts as she steps over the corpses, heading to the closed café's glass doors. "You're juicing up with my blood and I deal with what you can't handle. I'd call this little thing we got going here a team, Sam." —A look back over her shoulder as she puts a hand on the exit's handle— "I may not be that idiot brother of yours, but I can be your partner too, you know."

"Don't call him that and you can't take his place. No one can," Sam growls back as he kneels down to check the woman's pulse. It's thready, but she's still alive. It's all that matters.

"Yeah. So I'm gathering," Ruby smartly remarks, before she makes her way out into the cool night air.

Standing up with a frown, Sam pulls out his cell phone to call 911 while irritably yelling after her, "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Whatever you want it to, big boy," he hears before the door bangs shuts behind the she-demon. "Whatever you want it to."

[xx]

Weeks later, Sam still hasn't found a way to bring Dean back, but at least his powers are getting stronger. With his mind alone, he'd taken out three demons at once. He'd saved those two sisters and their mother from having to die by the knife's blade. Still … driving down the road, now, on his way back to the motel from an emptied vamp nest, things just don't feel right. Maybe it's the fact that he's got a demon sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala or maybe it's because he's the one behind the wheel. Either way, something feels off and Sam's afraid things will never feel right again.

_I'm not giving up on you, Dean. I'm not. I just…I just don't know where else to look, man, who else to question, where else to turn. I'm trying here, Dean, I really am. I just don't know what else to do._

"Feeling constipated there, Sam? You got that look on your face again."

Sam doesn't say anything. He just keeps his eyes on the road.

"I've been meaning to ask," Ruby says as she reaches under her seat. Pulling out a box, she dubiously questions, "What are these? You can't possibly tell me that you still use these reli—"

"Put those back!" Sam barks. He may have hooked up his I-Pod to the car's sound system, but he's not throwing those out. Like everything else of Dean's: his jacket, his necklace, his car, his gun, his bag and those goddamn annoying ass tapes, they're all staying right where they belong. In the only home they've ever known.

"Fine. Fine," Ruby says, putting the box of cassette tapes back in their place. "Little obsessed there don't you think? Hell, I'd almost say—"

"You know, I don't really care what you'd say," Sam throws back at her. However, in the next second, he's pissed at himself for it. After all, she's been helping him out and even saved his life more than once these days. In truth, a large part of him is grateful for her presence since she's been keeping him company when he feels like he's the only one left on the planet since he's without his brother. Still, she's a demon and … and you can't really trust demons. Right?

"Fine. I get it," Ruby grumbles, looking out the window again. "I'll just sit here and listen to you breathe. How about that?"

"Look, M'sorry," Sam says and a large part of him actually means it.

[xx]

Several days later, Sam's struggling with one Bobby Singer and completely not believing his eyes.

"It's him! It's him, Sam! I've already been through this! It's really him!"

"But—" Sam says, shocked and still somewhat struggling in Bobby's vice-like grip, because how? Just how the fuck is this true when he couldn't…? When he hadn't…? _How?_

Dean walks forward from his place on the far side of the motel room. "I know," he says, with their eye contact unwavering. With a playful yet highly nervous smile he adds, "I look fantastic, huh?"

That's when Sam knows somehow, someway, this shit is real. That's when he knows it's ok to step forward and take comfort in wrapping himself around his brother, who he'd tried and failed in every conceivable way to save. And feeling Sam's warmth, smelling that familiar Sammy smell, feeling his brother's steady heartbeat through their pressed chests, that's when Dean knows he's really alive, that's when he inhales the air around him and takes his real first breath of life. Somehow Dean's made it back and he's got another chance to be with Sam.

Fuck. Hugging Sam feels so fucking good. A part of Dean finds it incredible how, even after his stay in hell, that odd desire is still lurking just beneath his skin, tainting the love that he feels so deeply for his brother that has become this grown man wrapped up in his arms. However, Dean stamps down everything he feels that isn't purely familial. He does, because he's not going to ruin this. Not now. Not ever.

_Missed you so fucking much, man. So glad to be back._

And Sam's thoughts reflect Dean's own like a mirror as he continues to hug the shit out of his big brother while trying to hold all of his explosive emotions inside at the same time.

_So glad to have you back, Dean. Fucking missed you so goddamn much. You don't even know. Man, you just—You just don't even know._

[xx]

Unfortunately, as weeks roll by and truths start being revealed, their happy reunion is all but forgotten. After following his brother to an abandoned house and finding out a few things for himself, Dean yells, "You're rolling with Ruby? A friggin demon?"

Frustrated, knowing this was going to happen, Sam throws his hands up in the air. "You weren't—!" he tries to explain, but his pissed brother cuts him off.

"I was in hell, Sam!" Running hands back through his hair, Dean paces. He can't help feeling betrayed. He also can't help feeling that Sam's been keeping other secrets from him. It's killing Dean, because he can't help but wonder what else is going on behind his back that he doesn't know about. But what really bothers him the most and he doesn't want to admit it is…

_You totally replaced me just like that? Did you even really give a shit that I was gone? Sam, what the fuck?_

[xx]

More weeks roll by and because of Castiel, Dean finds something crucial out about his brother.

"You're sucking blo—?" Dean cuts himself off. Both hands in his hair, he turns away. He can't even look at Sam right now. There's a huge fireball of anger in his chest and so much goddamn disappointed in his heart. He knew Sam was hiding something from him while he was using his powers, but he didn't know it was this. This is… Dean doesn't even have words.

_What the fuck? What the hell happened to you? Where is the kid I—? How could you let this happen to yourself?_

[xx]

Dean's standing in a motel room, facing Sam, his brother who he'd had to hunt down like some fucking illusive target that had slipped through his hands! Dean is pissed beyond all belief and he wants to murder that bitch standing behind Sam. This is her fault! It's always been her fault! She's made Sam waver, made him come to her side, made him change, made him hardly recognizable even to his own eyes and that fucking evil, manipulative bitch needs to die! If Sam hadn't stopped him, ripped the demon killing knife from his hands, he would have done it twenty-five seconds ago, would have staked her ass to that fucking wall where she belongs.

"Dean, we can talk about this," Sam tries to say, putting his tall frame between his brother and the demon that had unwittingly become his partner.

Dean just looks toward Ruby, the bitch he thinks broke Sam out of the panic room while his brother was supposed to be detoxing. "As soon as she's dead, we can talk all you want," he says and he means every word.

But, to his amazement, Sam just says to the bitch, "Ruby get out of here."

"No. She's not going anywhere," Dean barks, but is stopped by Sam blocking his way. The hurt of betrayal written all over his face, Dean can't believe his brother as he just watches the bitch run for the door. "She's poison, Sam!"

"It's not what you think, Dean," Sam says, but Dean's not listening. He won't, because this isn't his brother. This isn't what his Sam would do. It's not!

"Look what she did to you!" he instead argues. "I mean, she up and vanishes for weeks at a time! Leaves you cracking out for another hit!"

"She was looking for Lilith!"

Dean shakes his head and then yells back, "That's French for manipulating your sorry ass ten ways from Sunday!"

"You're wrong, Dean."

Dean wishes he was wrong, but he knows he's not. Demons lie and this bitch's forked tongue has gotten his little brother wrapped around her fucking finger. It sickens Dean to see Sam like this and for so many reasons. "Sammy, you're lying to yourself. I just … want you to be ok," he says, trying to make Sam understand. "You'd do the same for me. You know you would."

"Just listen," Sam says trying to be calm as he throws the demon killing knife he wrestled out of his brother's grip earlier onto the nearby bed. "Just listen for a second. We got a lead on a demon close to Lilith. Come with us, Dean. We'll do this together. "

"That sounds great," Dean replies. "As long as it's you and me. That demon bitch is a deal breaker. You kiss her goodbye and we can go right now."

"I can't," Sam says, after a pregnant pause. "…Dean, I need her."

Dean turns away. He can't believe his motherfucking ears even though a part of him can. It hurts. Jesus Christ, it hurts. Sam's never needed him like he needs Sam, but, now all of a sudden, his brother needs a goddamn demon? Ain't that just a kick in the balls?

"To help me kill Lilith," Sam continues, but to Dean it doesn't matter — the damage has been done. "I know you can't wrap your head around it, but maybe one day you'll understand. I'm the only one who can do this Dean."

That gets to Dean as well, because really? What the hell happened to them against the world? What the fuck happened to '_it's you and me, Dean?' _And, yeah, it hurts to know that Sam has so little faith in his own abilities. Seriously, what the hell happened to his brother? But there's that voice in his head that's screaming _Ruby-Ruby-Ruby_ even though an even deeper part of him is yelling it's all _Sam-Sam-Sam_.

Dean can't help but angrily snarl, "No, you're not the one who's gonna do this."

"Right," Sam throws back condescendingly, "That's right. I forgot. The angels think it's you."

That hits a chord in Dean. Hits him so wrong, he's on the cusp of balling his fist to keep it at his side. "You don't think I can?" he asks.

"No," Sam says and it both hurts and pisses Dean off that the guy's so quick to answer like that. "You can't. You're not strong enough."

"Who the hell are you—!"

"I'm being practical here. I'm doing what needs to be done," is Sam's answer.

"Yeah? You're not going to do a single damn thing." Even as Dean says it, he sees the change in Sam's face, sees the anger twist his features that were already balancing precariously on the edge of calm.

"Stop bossing me around, Dean!" Sam yells and then he tries to rein it in, but his voice shakes with the effort. "Look, my whole life. You take the wheel. You call the shots and I trust you, because you're my brother. Now, I'm asking you for once. Trust me."

Dean shakes his head. "No," he says, because he can't. Not this time. He knows what Sam's doing is wrong and he knows his brother's too blind to see the truth. "You don't know what you're doing, Sam."

"Yes, I do!" Sam roars.

"Then that's worse!" To Dean it really is, because if his brother's cognizant of the bad choices he's making ... what kind of a monster does that really make him? Why can't Sam see this? Why can't the idiot see that he only wants to help him, because he fucking… Because he's his brother! They're fucking family goddamn it!

"Why?" Sam asks. "Look, I'm telling you—"

"Because it's not something that you're doing! It's what you are! It means—" Dean cuts himself off. He can tell by the look on Sam's face that his words weren't the right ones to say. But Dean's too hurt, too angry to take them back.

"No," Sam says with anger, frustration, and tears burning in his eyes. He wants to hear it, because that voice in the back of his head has been whispering that Dean's been thinking he's a freak, a fucking monster for years. "Say it," he prods again and Dean can't help but answer.

"It means you're a monster," Dean finally says. But he's not talking about the demon blood in his brother. However, Dean knows, he can tell by the look on Sam's face that his brother's been thinking some fucked up shit about him for years. And, son-of-a-bitch, can his heart take any more pain? Dean just doesn't know. Whatever Sam's been telling himself about him, it's not true. Dean would go through… Hell, he _has_gone through hellfire for him. He fucking loves the sorry bastard so much that something's even ended up broken inside him because of it!

However, Dean also knows that there's nothing he can say to make Sam think differently. Not now. Not when he's so goddamn set on his twisted path. It's killing Dean, but, unfortunately, as the first tear falls, before it even has a chance to hit the damn ground, he takes the full brunt of Sam's fist to his face.

In hindsight, Dean doesn't know what hurts more: his cheekbone or that organ in his chest that keeps getting beat the fuck up. But, getting to his feet, there's a fire in his belly, because if Sam wants a fight — and he obviously does from the juiced up adrenaline panting he's doing — Dean's going to give him one.

With that, fists fly, furniture breaks, glass shatters, and blood is spilt — both Sam and Dean's. The out and out brawl ends with Sam trying to choke his downed brother on the floor. Finally, Sam pulls back, but not without giving his final blow. "You don't know me. You never did. And you never will."

Beaten and broken, Dean's lying on the floor amongst broken pieces of glass and furniture. From his place, he turns angry, pained eyes on Sam. "You walk out that door, don't you ever come back!" They're wheezed words his dad had once used and, like their father, Dean doesn't really mean them. They're just a last ditch effort to make Sam stay. But they're laced with the venom eating at him nonetheless, because Sam's too hopped up on demon blood, using his powers, and that fucking bitch Ruby to see the forest before the trees. No. His brother's too blinded to the truth to see that what he's doing isn't right. Hell, Castiel had even told him God had damned Sam's actions.

Unfortunately, Sam just looks at him with contempt and then walks right out. When Sam slams the door, Dean's heart breaks into tiny little pieces that bleed, warm and wet, inside him, like the tears he can no longer hold back.

_He fucking left, _he silently wails inside his own head as his body bows inwardly, into a pained fetal position on the ground._ He fucking left me again! Shit. Shit-shit-shit-shit-fuck! _For Dean, it hurts. It hurts so fucking much more than the cuts and bruises and the broken ribs. _Why do you always leave dammit? Why can't I ever be something important enough to make you stay? Why? For fuck's sake! Why?_

[xx]

Several hours later, it's the start of a new day. Morning has come at the abandoned house which has become Sam and Ruby's headquarters of sorts. "Sam, you're head in the game here?" Ruby asks as she packs up the orange charger with its trunk full of demon-nurse — Lilith's supposed second in command — whose blood will be used to sustain Sam's powers.

Hands in his pockets with his back resting against its passenger side door, Sam's busy staring off into the distance, with his mind in that middle plain between thought and reality. At her words, he finally does come back to himself, but he just doesn't… Something doesn't feel right. So he lies. "M'good. Let's go."

"You ok?" Ruby looks concerned. She's been doing that a lot lately.

Sam turns to her with his game-face on. With a shake of his head he says, "Just said I was."

"Look, I know handholding isn't really my thing, but still Dean was wrong saying what he said to you."

After much thought, Sam's had time to think through what had happened between him and his brother. He shakes his head. "No," he says. "He was right to say it. I mean, I don't blame him after what I did." He still can't believe he had not only tried to beat the shit out of Dean, but he'd tried to choke him as well. He'd never do that. He wouldn't. …Right?

Paused by the trunk, Ruby tries to be sympathetic. "Well, after we're done. You guys'll patch things up. I mean, you always do."

Sam doesn't think so. Not this time. Besides, "You're talking like I got an after."

"Don't say that." There she goes with that concerned face again.

But Sam has other things on his mind. "I can feel it inside me, Ruby," he says and he can. "I've changed. For good. There's no going back now."

"Sam—"

"Look, I know what I gotta do. It's ok. I mean, I'm just saying, Dean's better off as far away from me as possible." Sam finds it ironic that, even when he's pissed at Dean, he can't help but think of and worry about his stupid brother. _I wish you would've just listened to me, man. Fuck. I don't hate you. Never could. After all, we're… _For some weird reason, Sam suddenly remembers sitting beside his brother on a dark blue, flowered couch when he was barely six years old. He suddenly remembers being stuck to him like glue and he can't help but smile.

After that, he amends his first thought and finishes instead with_: After all, you're my Dean._

[xx]

As Sam's door slams — in another place, Dean turns away from the window he was staring out. "I'm not calling him."

Bobby shakes his head as he leans a hip against his desk. "Don't make me get my gun, boy."

"We're damn near kick off for Armageddon," Dean argues back. "Don't you think we've got bigger fish at the moment?"

But Bobby's not to be deterred. He's a hardheaded son-of-a-bitch after all. "I know you're pissed, and I'm not making apologies for what he's done, but he's your—"

"Blood?" Dean harshly interrupts. "He's my blood. Is that what you're gonna say?"

"He's your brother," Bobby pointedly replies. "And he's drowning."

Dean knows, but what can he do? "Bobby, I tried to help him. I really did. Look what happened."

"So try again."

"No. It's too late."

Bobby can't believe his ears. "There's no such thing."

"No! Dammit!" Dean yells back, looking broken. "No. Gotta face the facts. Sam never wanted part of this family. He hated this life growing up. Ran away to Stanford the first chance he got. Now it's like déjà vu all over again."

And there it is. That's what's killing him the most. Above the fist fights, above Sam's words, above the demon blood drinking, even above frigging being traded in for Ruby, it's the fact that Sam doesn't need him anymore. It's the fact that Sam's never really needed him as much as he needs Sam. Even after going to hell for him, Dean just keeps loving, loving, loving and getting pushed the fuck away. A guy can only take so much before he's through. And Dean, he…

He loves Sam so much it's not natural. He knows that now. But there's nothing he can do about it. That evil seed has been growing inside him since, hell, probably day one and it's taken root so far down deep inside his soul that it's a part of him. That wicked love for Sam isn't something that can be removed. No. It's like an inoperable cancer that, if cut out, will kill Dean too.

Even as he says his next words, he knows the truth is written all over his face. They're a lie. The shaky way he says it and his pained features are proof enough. "Well, I'm sick and tired of chasing him. Screw him. He can do what he wants."

"You don't mean that," Bobby says.

"Yes I do, Bobby. Sam's gone." As Dean repeats his words, he can't hold back the haunted look on his face. "He's gone. I'm not even sure he's still my brother anymore. …If he ever was."

At that, Bobby gets up from the desk he was leaning on. His blood is lava as papers and books and all kinds of things go flying, because he can't hold in his own anger on the subject. He's been around Sam and Dean since they were little. He knows. He knows these boys love each other more than they ever have a right to. And he knows that Dean may be hurting, but he's going about things all wrong. So he tells him straight out, barebones, with no holding back.

"You stupid, stupid son-of-a-bitch!" he rages and Dean's on his feet in an instant and highly alarmed. "Well boo-hoo! I am so sorry your feelings are hurt, princess! Are you under the impression that family's supposed to make you feel good? Bake you an apple pie maybe? They're supposed to make you miserable! That's why they're family!"

Taken aback, Dean's lax lips still find words. "I told him '_you walk out that door, don't come back'_ and he walked out anyway! That was his choice!"

"You sound like a whiny brat!"

Dean walks away, but Bobby's not done. Not by a long shot. "No. You sound like your dad. Well, let me tell you something. Your dad was a coward."

That gets Dean to turn around alright. "My dad was a lot of things," he says with a dangerous air, "but a coward?"

But Bobby knows he's seen sides of his father that Dean's never wanted to see. "He'd rather push Sam away than reach out to him. Well that don't strike me as brave." After that, he can tell by the look on Dean's face — the relaxation of the tense muscles around his mouth — that he's thinking it through. So Bobby pushes, telling a truth that he feels with every bone in his body. "You are a better man than your daddy ever was. So, you do both of us a favor. Don't be him."


	4. Chapter 4

Minutes later, in a sealed off room the angels have suddenly zapped him in, Dean pulls out his phone. With Bobby's words still ringing clear in his ears, he nervously decides to make a call.

"Hey, it's m-me, uh,"—A cough and a deep breath—"Look, I'll just get right to it. I'm still pissed and I owe you a serious beat-down, but … I shouldn't've said what I said. I'm not dad. We're brothers. You know, family, and no matter how bad it gets that doesn't change. …Sammy, I'm sorry."

It's just too bad Sam never hears that exact message once Ruby gets her hands on it. But Dean doesn't know that. He's all alone in a room that he can't get out of with his thoughts always on Sam. _We're family,_ he thinks again. _Even if the real monster is me, because I… Fuck!_He internally curses, because he doesn't have time to play the pity or the blame game. He needs to get out of here. Lilith's going to break the final seal — or rather she is the final seal — and he needs to find Sam.

_Sam. Hold on, man. Just hold on. I'm coming._

[xx]

With Castiel's help (who'd stayed behind with Chuck to fend off the archangel) Dean's outside, in the Convent's hall, using a huge candelabrum to try to bust his way into the sarcophagus room as Lilith lies dead at Sam's feet. Her blood is beginning to pool on the cement flooring, as Ruby finishes finally telling him her starring role in the intricate play that had been set up to string him along.

"Yeah, I'm sure you're a little angry right now. But, I mean, come on, Sam! Even you have to admit. I'm—I'm awesome!"

After calling her a lying bitch, Sam tries to use his powers on her. Ruby doesn't even flinch. Nothing happens except Sam falling to the floor with a massive headache that feels as if his head might crack open from the pressure.

"Don't hurt yourself, Sam. It's useless. You shot your payload on the boss," Ruby calmly explains.

"The blood… You poisoned me," Sam accuses. That has to be it, he thinks, because he'd never have … he'd never have done all this shit, hurt and betrayed Dean, his own fucking brother if… if…

"No." Ruby sorrowfully shakes her head. "It wasn't the blood. It was you and your choices. I just gave you the options and you chose the right path. Every. Time. You didn't need the feather to fly. You had it in you the whole time, Dumbo."

Sam looks away, feeling sick. Christ. He can't believe his ears. He can't believe himself. He let this happen? This was all his doing? It can't be. It just... It can't be.

Ruby kneels down in front of him, imploringly. "I know it's hard to see now, but this is a miracle so long in coming. Everything Azazel did and Lilith did just to get you here. And you were the only one who could do it."

_What?_

"Why?" Sam asks, completely confused and feeling so god-awful and fucking sick to know that his mom and dad and fucking Jess had died… They'd died for this? They'd died because of him? Deep down, he's always known it, but to hear it put like that? Out in the open? So simplified just like that? "Why me?"

"Because," Ruby says lovingly as she brushes the hair back from his face. "Because it had to be you, Sam. It always had to be you. You saved us. You set him free. And he's gonna be grateful! He's gonna repay you in ways that you can't even imagine!"

As if her words are his cue, Dean finally breaks through the door. His eyes immediately track to Ruby on Sam and he's in motion. He's tossing the candelabra from his hands and ripping out the knife from the back of his pants. Walking towards her with powerful strides, murder's written all over his tense features and death is what his hands are intending to dish out. To Dean, the bitch has always had it coming and — finally! finally! — by his hands alone, this is her time to die.

Ruby looks back at him with a smile. "You're too late."

"I don't care," Dean snarls and he doesn't. The world could end up going up in flames around him at any moment, but for right now all he wants is for her to stop breathing. He doesn't even have time to register Sam coming up behind her and pinning her arms to her sides. He's already stabbing her with her own knife with a vindictive look in his eyes as he twists the blade in her gut and watches her screech and squirm. When he finally rips the blade out, Sam lets her go, and she falls to the floor as dead as her boss.

Panting, Dean looks from her corpse to Sam.

On the edge of breaking down, Sam says the only words he can get out. But they're words he means with every fiber of his tainted being. "I'm sorry."

But they don't have time for a heartfelt reunion or mixed words, because the blood-soaked ground is already opening up with a white beam of light at its center.

"Sammy, let's go," Dean frantically says as he fists a hand in his brother's shirt at the same time Sam grabs onto his own.

Sam's frozen in place as he says, "Dean. …He's coming." And they both already know who he's talking about.

[xx]

Hours later (and after mysteriously being put on a plane) in the Impala, Sam turns off the radio that reveals nuclear tests, massive quakes, and swine flu among other maladies in the news. Knowing this is all his fault, he tries to breach the pink elephant sitting between him and his brother.

"Dean, look I—" but his brother cuts him off.

"Don't say anything," Dean says, shaking his head with his eyes on the road.

Sam turns and it hurts … until he hears his brother's, "It's ok." He starts at that, because really? After everything he's done, not including starting the apocalypse, it's ok? Just like that? He doesn't think so.

But Dean continues nonetheless. "We just gotta keep our heads down and hash this out, alright?"

Sam is baffled, but he just says, "Yeah, ok," because what else can he say? He's not going to look a gift-horse in the mouth. At least, not right now.

[xx]

In Chuck the Prophet's house that looks more disastrous than normal, Sam gets hit in the face with a toilet plunger by its paranoid owner.

"Jeez! Ow!" Sam exclaims as the smaller man draws up short from their sudden appearance.

"Sam!"

"Yeah," said guy says pained.

"Hey, Chuck," Dean greets from his place in the background.

"So, you're ok?" Chucks asks relieved and highly confused.

"Well, my head hurts," Sam says with much emphasis on the pain.

"No, I mean," Chuck explains. "I-I-I-I saw… My last vision. You went, like, full-on Vader. You're body temperature was 150. Your heart rate was 200. Your eyes were black!"

That particular information prompts Dean to flick his gaze on his brother. "Your eyes were black?"

Sam turns back to him with a troubled expression written all over his face. "…I didn't know."

Truth is he didn't know a lot of things then. Just like how, now, he hadn't known how bad it was going to hurt seeing the mistrust in Dean's eyes. He hopes it's not a foreshadowing of the guy's true underlying thoughts, but something tells Sam that he doesn't want to know. At least, not yet.

[xx]

Several days later, after a demon possesses Bobby and tries to kill them, Sam and Dean find themselves outside the hospital housing their grouchy father figure. As they head back to the Impala, after their night visit where Bobby thankfully told Sam that the demon had been wrong, that he would never cut him out of his life, Sam says, "You know, I was thinking, Dean. Maybe we could go after the colt."

"Why? What difference would that make?"

Sam doesn't quite understand. After all, Dean had just told Bobby that it was basically them against both the angels and demons. "We could use it on Lucifer. I mean, you just said back there—"

"I just said a bunch of crap for Bobby's benefit," Dean says still heading over to the driver's side door. "I mean, I'll fight. I'll fight to the last man, but let's at least be honest. I mean, we don't stand a snowball's chance and you know that. I mean, hell, you of all people know that."

Hurt because of that last bit, although he feels he deserves whatever he gets, he asks, because maybe it's time he heard the truth. (Sam just hopes he can take it.) "Dean, is there something you want to say to me?"

Dean stops and turns around. In Sam's eyes his brother looks tired, and well, fed up. In truth, his stomach's already dropping before Dean gets out a word. But then he hears him and he suddenly feels even worse. "I tried, Sammy. Man, I really tried. But I just can't keep pretending that everything's alright, because it's not. And it's never going to be. You chose a demon over your own brother and look what happened."

"I would give anything … anything to take it all back." And Sam would. God, he would, because the way Dean's looking at him? Something's changed between them. Its written all over Dean's face and Sam can see it even if he doesn't want to believe.

"I know you would," Dean tells him. "And I know how sorry you are. I do. But, man, you're the one that I depended on the most. And you let me down in ways that I can't even… I'm just having a hard time forgiving and forgetting here. You know?"

Sam knows, but he also has to know, "What can I do?"

"Honestly?" Dean says and Sam waits for it, waits for it with bated breath. "…Nothing. I just don't … I don't think that we can ever be what we were, you know? I just don't think I can trust you."

Right there? Right there Sam wishes God or whatever never brought him back from the brink, never put him on that fucking plane, because hearing Dean say that is even worse than having a knife shoved in his heart. What makes it even worse? He knows he doesn't deserve Dean's trust even if all he wants right now is some way, some miracle cure that he could find or do that could earn him his brother's trust again. But then again, he feels this is a pain worth enduring if he's pushed Dean away this far.

He doesn't say anything, hell, he can't say anything to that as Dean gets in the car. He even just stands there as Dean drives away. They both need time apart right now. A few hours, whatever, they just need time away to separately break.

Driving away, with Sam still standing there shell-shocked with his hands in his pockets, Dean desperately tries to find a silver lining. At least with the pain and anger overshadowing all, that twisted feeling hidden deep down inside is almost null and void. …Almost.

[xx]

Few days down the line, Dean asks without humor, holding up their first horsemen ring as they sit at a bench on a roadside rest stop, "So … pit stop on Mount Doom?"

"Dean—" Sam starts, because during their last case with a town full of people seeing each other as demons, War had confirmed his suspicions. All he thinks about is blood and, even under the greatest intentions, he still has that twisted thirst for power. That and also Dean still doesn't trust him.

"Sam, let's not," Dean says, putting down the piece of jewelry.

"No, listen. This is important," Sam says and to him it is. "I know you don't trust me. It's just … now I realize something. I don't trust me either. From the minute I saw that blood, the only thought in my head… And I tell myself it's for the right reasons. My intentions are good and it feels true, you know? But I think, underneath, I just miss the feeling. I know how messed up that sounds, which means I know how messed up I am. The thing is the problem's not the demon blood. Not really. I mean, what I did, I can't, like, blame the blood or Ruby or … anything. The problem's me, how far I'll go. There's something in me that scares the hell out of me, Dean. And the last couple of days … I caught another glimpse."

"So what're you saying?" Dean asks, knowing his brother's going somewhere with this. He just doesn't exactly see where.

But Sam has a point, even if the words are like razorblades ripping up his throat as he says them. "I'm in no shape to be hunting. I need to step back, 'cause I'm dangerous. …Maybe—Maybe it's best we just go our separate ways."

"Well, I think you're right."

It kills Sam to hear his brother agree like that. "Truth is I was expecting a fight." And he was. Now that he's not getting one, that knife that's been lodged in his heart gives another twist.

It does so, especially as Dean says, "Truth is I spend more time worrying about you than about doing the job right. I just—I can't afford that, you know? …Not now."

The phrase tumbles out of Sam's mouth automatically and, in light of everything, he knows just how trite they sound. "I'm sorry, Dean."

"I know you are, Sam." And Dean has tried. He really has tried to know and understand, but...

Lead in his gut and an invisible hand around his heart, Sam goes to get up but is stopped by Dean's, "Hey, you wanna take the Impala?"

Inwardly, Sam smiles even as his heart breaks. There's his big brother trying to do something for him even though he doesn't deserve it. He just shakes his head. "That's ok." After Sam stands, he turns back with one final look to Dean, to the man he's wronged so much that there's just nothing he can do to right it. "Take care of yourself, Dean," he says and he wants to cry, but he won't. He'll keep that stiff upper lip, because he's a Winchester.

Dean shows that he is too as he says, "You too, Sammy."

Sam grabs his bags and Dean watches him go. He watches him talk to a man in a nearby, blue camper truck obviously about hitching a ride. He watches Sam get in and then that vehicle and his brother are rolling away from him, to parts of the country unknown. Sam's left him again, but this time it's different. It's different isn't it? This is what they both need. This is what's best for both of them. Right? …Right?

[xx]

In a motel, in some state he doesn't even care about, in the sink sits every fake photo ID Sam's ever owned. After dousing them with the can of gasoline he'd found in his bag, a dropped match lights them all up almost as if he's salting and burning his past — his life of hunting, his life with Dean.

Sam finds it ironic that he's done this before. Back when he'd gone off to college he'd used a trashcan in his dorm to pull the same vigil. However, this time it's different. He was too young, too full of ideas and wants and desires of normalcy to _really_know how important family was to him back then. But after everything he's gone through at Dean's side, after all the shared blood, sweat, and tears, and with the baggage between them so heavy … it's different. This time, he's all too aware that no pretty faces or sweet words, no matter how beautiful and caring, are going to help him forget about what's really important.

Even as he watches the plastic cards blacken and curl at the edges inside the metal basin as the orange-red flames do their job, his thoughts are on his family, on one man in particular. Dean.

[xx]

Dean's rolling down the highway, intent on reaching Macon, Georgia by nightfall. With no horsemen activity on the radar, he'd spied a vamp in the news. Bodies found sucked dry outside a nightclub in that area and with his head swimming with nothing but thoughts of Sam, he'd decided to pick up the case. Only problem is, even as he drives, the empty seat to his right is just another reminder that his brother's gone. Even his music can't fill the silence that forever reminds him of Sam.

[xx]

A few days later, Sam's found work in the local bar. He's slicing up lemons to be used in drinks. His mind is idle as he works expertly with the knife. He's thinking of female ghosts in white gowns, Wendigos, and all kinds of murderous things. Even so, his brain still pulls up all the poignant times in between those bloody memories, because they're all hunts he did with Dean. Back before they really knew about demons and all their fucking plans for him. Back when Dean still called him Sammy with a stupid joke and goddamn smile on his face.

"Get some juice in your eye there?"

Sam looks up to see the blonde-haired waitress named Lindsey speaking to him from the other side of the bar. "Sorry?"

He watches her smile and wink. "You're eyes. They're a little misty. You got a little juice in your eye, didn't you?"

Forcing back the waterworks he hadn't even known were threatening to spill, Sam forcefully smiles back, all too grateful for the offered cover. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, guess I did."

[xx]

A week later, Dean's laughing as he comes out of the brothel with a rumpled Castiel in tow. (He'd decided to take his angel friend out, otherwise the poor guy might've died a virgin when they face Raphael tomorrow.) They'd barely missed the bouncers that had come after them to throw them out.

Doubled over, Dean wheezes out a few chuckles.

"What's so funny?" Castiel asks confused as ever.

With a pat to the angel's trenchcoated shoulder, Dean shakes his head with a grin. "Nothing." Prodding Castiel toward the Impala, he next tells him, "It's been a while since I laughed that hard. More than a long time." Coming up beside the driver's side door, he adds, "Years." The smile has slipped from his face and his thoughts are once again on Sam. Getting behind the wheel he tries to force the thought of his brother away. He manages to for a good five minutes, but Sam's image always flashes back behind his mind's eye. After all, even when they were still riding together, it always did.

[xx]

Days later, sitting in a dive restaurant that Lindsey — the inquisitive, blonde girl he works with at the bar — forced him to, Keith — A.K.A Sam Winchester — decides to open up a little as he picks at his salad. "I used to be in business with my brother," he finally tells her, being honest in the vaguest way he can. "Truth is, I used to be pretty good at the job, but … I made some mistakes, you know. I did some stuff I'm not so proud of and people got hurt. A lot of people."

Including my brother, he doesn't say. In a way, it feels good to talk about it, even if he can't exactly give out any specific details.

But then Lindsey asks, "What was your poison?"

At this, Sam looks up, confused and somewhat alarmed. "Sorry?"

"Come on," she says. "You were hooked on something. I know the look."

Sam doesn't know how to answer. After all, how does he tell someone that he has a taste for demon blood without them immediately calling the nuthouse? So, he just watches the girl pull out a coin from her jean's pocket as she says, "Three years sober."

He finds that ironic since, "You work in a bar."

"So do you," she grins back. "Look, Keith, I don't know you and I'm the last person to be giving advice, but I do know that no one has ever done anything so bad that they can't be forgiven, that they can't change."

Sam's not so sure of that, because, other than having started the apocalypse and longing for blood, Dean already told him that there's nothing he can do to change the messed up things between them. And even now, after so many seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, being apart? It still hurts like hell. If he ever does talk to him again, he has no idea what he'd say.

Then again, Sam has no idea that Lucifer will drive him to make a certain call in the coming days.

[xx]

"Sam?" Dean says, still lying in bed. It's the first time they've talked in more than a month, but he's tired as hell after having driven sixteen hours straight. "It's a little past four."

"This is important," Sam quickly replies, because it is. He just had a little eye-opening visit from Lucifer after all. After that, details are exchanged, about how Sam is supposedly the devil's true vessel, and Dean goes to grab a beer.

"So you're his vessel, huh? Lucifer's wearing you to the prom?"

"That's what he said," Sam says, driving his car away from the life he had unsuccessfully tried to build. But he knew it was doomed before it even started, because of the evil that always follows him … and because it wasn't where he belonged. Unlike his time in Palo Alto, he knows where he's meant to be now. Demon blood isn't just in his veins. He's a hunter, from a line of hunters. And Dean's his brother and the only partner he will ever want or ever need from this point on. …If Dean will have him back.

Unfortunately, what he hears doesn't give him much hope of such a thing happening. "Just when you thought you were out, they pull you back in, huh, Sammy?"

"So that's it? That's your response?" he asks, because this isn't what he thought Dean would say. Not at all.

"What're you looking for?"

"I don't know." And it's true. He doesn't know what he expected Dean to say, but it wasn't that. "Uh, a little panic maybe?"

"I guess I'm a little numb to the earth-shattering revelations at this point." Dean sounds more than tired. His brother sounds bone-weary. It makes Sam chew on his lip to know that he's mainly the cause for that exhausted tone. But then he's forcing his mouth into movement again, because…

"What're we gonna do about it?" Sam asks.

Unfortunately, Dean doesn't have all the answers as he poses back, "What do _you_want to do about it?"

So, Sam tells the truth. "I want back in for starters."

"Sam—"

"I mean it," he heatedly interjects. "I am sick of being a puppet for these sons-of-bitches. I'm gonna hunt him down, Dean."

"Oh, so we're back to the revenge then, are we?" Dean sounds pissed. "Yeah, 'cause that worked out so well last time."

"Not revenge," Sam tells him and he means it. "Redemption."

However, it doesn't seem to help his case in the slightest as Dean remarks, "So, you're just gonna walk back in and we're gonna be the dynamic duo again?"

But Sam's not going to take the bait and get pissed. This is too important. Taking up his rightful place, riding shotgun next to his brother is too important to waste on letting his anger take over. So, he lets his determination speak for him. "Look, Dean, I can do this. I can. I'm gonna prove it to you."

But it sounds like Dean already has his mind made up as he sighs. "Look, Sam. It doesn't matter whatever we do. I mean, it turns out that you and me? We're the fire and the oil in their Armageddon. You know, on that basis alone, we should just pick a hemisphere. Stay away from each other for good."

"Dean, it does not have to be like this. We can fight it." Sam knows they can if his brother will just give him a chance.

"Yeah, you're right. We can," Dean says, before he pushes out the rest. "But not together. We're not stronger when we're together, Sam. I think we're weaker, because whatever we have between us. …Love. Family. Whatever it is. They're always gonna use it against us … and you know that." The silence that answers Dean forces him to echo his sentiment in a different set of words, words that he both means and doesn't want to mean at the same time. "We're better off apart. We got a better chance of dodging Lucifer and Michael and this whole damn thing if we just go our own ways."

"Dean, don't do this," Sam pleads. Oh, yes, he fucking pleads, because the thought of never having Dean in his life again, when they're actually walking this earth together, never scared him so goddamn much in his life. _..._Vaguely, Sam wonders if this is the way Dean felt before he went off to college. At that thought, Sam's once again finding himself thinking: _Fuck, I'm so fucking sorry, man._

And like the hammer falling he hears his brother quietly say, "Goodbye, Sam."

Behind the wheel of his car, Sam breaks apart at the seams as Dean stoically tries to tell himself that this is for the best, that this is for the greater good. After all, at least this way he doesn't have to always worry about Sam. He doesn't have to look out for anyone but himself. At least like this, he doesn't have to deal with the feelings inside him that make his words out to be the complete farce that they truly are.

…After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder and, son-of-a-bitch, if his heart isn't still already so full of Sam.

[xx]

Mere hours after his conversation with Sam, in an apocalypse torn future, Dean faces the devil in a makeshift garden with his dick of a future-self dead at the demon's heels. (He still can't believe his other self just popped caps in his own comrades, his fucking friends!)

"You better kill me now!" Dean shouts.

"Pardon?" Lucifer asks, hardly concerned.

"You better kill me now or I swear," Dean growls. "I will find a way to kill you. And I won't stop."

The devil hardly looks worried. On the contrary, he almost looks sympathetic as he walks toward him and says, "I know you won't. I know you won't say yes to Michael either and I know you won't kill Sam. Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up here. I win. …So, I win."

"You're wrong," Dean forces out as a single tear spills down his stubbly cheek. The bastard is wrong! How dare he stand here and say this shit, wearing his fucking baby brother like a goddamn suit! Does this son-of-a-bitch honestly think that he's just going to sit back and let… Fuck what he'd told Sam. This shit is… No. No. He won't let this shit happen. He won't let his brother be… He won't let Sam be… _Won't happen_, he tells himself. _It won't! Not while I'm still kicking! Fuck that! Just … fuck that._

"See you in five years, Dean." And then the devil is gone and Zachariah zaps him back to his motel in his original timeline.

"Well, if it isn't the ghost of Christmas screw you!" Dean says, panting and leaning against the kitchenette's sink.

"Enough," Zachariah says. "Dean, enough. You saw, right? You saw what happens. You're the only person who can prove the devil wrong. Just say yes."

"And how do I know that this whole thing isn't just one of your tricks? Huh? Some angel hocus-pocus?"

"The time for tricks is over. Give yourself to Michael. Say yes and we can strike before Lucifer gets to Sam, before billions die."

Dean considers it as he walks past the angel. He considers it alright, but there's one thing the angel should have counted on. If he wanted Dean to let Michael ride him, he should never have shown him that future, because he knows now. He knows that what he was doing before was wrong. His future self showed him that. Showed him in spades.

"Nah," Dean finally replies as he looks the angel in his eyes.

"Nah?" Zachariah incredulously echoes, not believing his ears. "You're telling me you haven't learned your lesson?"

But Dean has and he moves to tell him just that. "Oh, I've learned a lesson alright. Just not the one you were trying to teach."

In that moment, Dean knows that his need for Sam isn't entirely corrupt. Not if it keeps him from turning into a cold-hearted bastard and his brother from being evil's plaything. Dean was wrong. Whatever they have between them — love, family, _whatever_ — they _are_ stronger together. Always have been and always will be.

[xx]

That evening, beside a large, wooden bridge, Sam and Dean stand facing each other, on a trail amongst overgrown grass. The Impala is parked behind Dean and Sam's powder blue vehicle is at his own back. The dwindling sun shines down upon them as they stare at each other for the first time in what feels like several years when in reality it's only been a little over a few months. The last time they'd spoken, Dean had lied and said they needed to go their separate ways, because they were weaker together than they ever were apart. But things are different now. His eyes have been opened. Ironically, thanks to the devil, he's seen the frigging light.

"If you're serious and you really want back in," Dean says, handing Ruby's demon killing knife over to Sam, "you should hang onto this. I'm sure you're rusty."

To be honest, when Dean first brought out the knife, Sam had been afraid that his brother might have had the mind to use it on him. After all, he is Lucifer's vessel. But Dean hadn't tried to shove the blade into his chest, hadn't tried to both — literally and figuratively — rip his heart out with it. Instead, his brother had given it _back_ to him. And that? Sam doesn't even know what to say to that.

But Dean's not finished. Looking his brother over, so thankful not to see the devil looking back at him from inside Sam's skin and bones, he says, "Look, man, I'm sorry. I don't know. I'm … whatever I need to be, but I was wrong."

Floored with so much gratitude and emotion, Sam takes Dean at his word. Even so, he has to know. "What made you change your mind?"

"Long story," Dean replies with memories of being sent into a future he doesn't want to think about. "But the point is … maybe we are each other's Achilles heel." —_You're definitely mine—_ "Maybe they'll find a way to use us against each other. I don't know. I just know we're all we've got. But more than that—" Dean pauses with a look away. When he's able to speak again, he looks Sam right in the eyes and says with feeling, "We keep each other human."

They do, because its Sam's presence that always reminds Dean of what he's fighting for. He's never realized this before, but he knows now that it's his brother that always keeps him from going off his own straight and narrow path. After all, without Sam, his future self had become a malicious bastard that he would have put bullet through himself if Lucifer hadn't killed him first.

As for Sam, his thoughts are starting to run along the same lines as Dean's, because his brother has always been there for him, even now when he knows the guy could have just up and walked away. Family has never really been as important to Sam as it has been for Dean, but over these past few weeks? Family means everything to him. Dean means everything to him. His brother may no longer be that hero he used to put on that high pedestal when he was a kid, but the flawed man before him, offering his love and forgiveness like this? He's no less glorious, no less beautiful.

To Sam, in this moment, Dean is more than just everything he could ever want in a brother. In truth, Dean's everything he wishes he could ever be. So, Sam says the only thing he can in return. He says, "Thank you. Really, thank you. I won't let you down," and he means every damn word with both his heart and soul.


	5. Chapter 5

In a darkened alley, beaten and bloody, Brady barks at Sam who's advancing on him with the demon-killing knife. He already knows he's going to die. So, he's not tightlipped with the taunts. After all, him and Sam are old friends, old college buddies even.

"Is this gonna make up for all the times we yanked your chain? Yellow-Eyes, Ruby, me? But it wasn't all our fault, was it? No-no-no-no-no. You're the one who trusted us. You're the one who let us into your life, let us whisper into your ear over and over and over again. Ever wonder why that is, Sammy? Ever wonder why we were so in your blind spot? Maybe it's because we've got the same stuff in our veins and deep down, you're just like us."

At that, Brady futilely attacks and Sam slices him up a few times, as Dean looks on from a safe distance behind them. But Brady's not done talking yet. Pushing off the wall, he says, "Maybe you hate us so much, because you hate what you see every time you look in the mirror. You ever think of that? Maybe the only difference between you and a demon is your hell is right here."

At one time, Sam might have entertained the idea, might have mulled it over, but not anymore. So, he finally shuts Brady up by letting him feel the full brunt of the blade to the space between his ribcage. Brady's body slides down the wall, leaving a wet, red trail on the bricks as Sam steps back. To the demon's words, he all but snorts, "Interesting theory."

Walking back to the Impala, Sam knows the truth now. Demon blood may run in his veins, but actions make a man. Yes, he's made some incredibly bad decisions in his past, but no more. He'll never allow himself to walk down that twisted path again. Besides, if earth really was his form of hell, he wouldn't have Dean. No. His brother wouldn't be here to keep him from slipping back into the monster the goddamn demons had tried to make him out to be.

Dean gets into the car after him and Sam even manages to smile somewhat at his brother's tentative question of "You alright?"

"Yeah," he replies, looking Dean's worried gaze over. "I'm good." And because of his brother, he really is.

[xx]

Dean's sitting in a pizzeria, in Chicago, across from Death, the most ancient being in the galaxy, possibly even older than God himself. He's got a plate of unfinished slice of Chicago deepdish in front of him, but food is not important to him. Truthfully, he's scared out of his mind faced with this being that radiates so much power.

"You have to do whatever it takes to put Lucifer in his cell," Death tells him.

And to that Dean simply says, "Of course," because what else did he think they were going to do? Dance a jig with him?

"Whatever it takes," Death reiterates.

And Dean tells him the same thing as before, but in so many words, "That's the plan."

"No," Death's cold voice smoothly yet pointedly says as he leans forward in his seat. "No plan. Not yet. You're brother. He's the one that can stop Lucifer. The only one."

"What? You think—?"

"I know. …So I need a promise. You're going to let your brother jump right into that fiery pit," Death says, holding out the last horsemen ring to Dean. "Well, do I have your word?"

Dean stares at it with so many emotions he can't hold in check flickering over his face. Let that fucking bastard of a devil inside his brother? Just let Sammy die? Is he fucking cra…? But then he thinks of the consequences, of all those that will die. Still, his love for his brother — his twisted love for Sam, the flawed man — makes him say, "Ok, yeah—Yes," with a 99.9 percent chance that he's telling a bold face fucking lie to Death, the head reaper himself.

"That had better be yes, Dean," the ancient being tells him, looking him right in the eye, "You know you can't cheat Death." And then the ring is in Dean's hands.

[xx]

Hours later, Dean is at Bobby's place feeling ill at ease as he sits outdoors at the garage's picnic table, surrounded by so many crushed piles of cars.

"So, Death told you how to operate those? The whole deal?" Bobby asks, coming up on him and handing off the other beer in his hand.

"Yeah, its nuts," Dean says, taking the offered drink. He picks up the horsemen's glued-together rings from the table, adding, "'Course I got bigger problems now."

"Really? Like?" Bobby prompts, taking a seat across from him.

"What do you think Death does to people who lie to his face?"

"Nothing good," Bobby says with a grim expression, before asking, "What'd you say?"

"That I was cool with Sam driving the bus on the whole Lucifer plan," Dean replies with knit brows. He still can't believe he walked out of that pizzeria alive; because Sam letting Lucifer ride his frigging bones? Yeah, don't think so.

"So, Death thinks Sam ought to say yes, huh?"

"I don't know… Yeah," Dean amends. "But of course he'd say that. I mean, he works for Lucifer."

"Against his will from what he said," Bobby reminds.

"Well, I'd say take his sob story with a fat grain of salt. I mean, he is Death," Dean poses back.

"Exactly," Bobby remarks. "He's Death. …Think of the kind of bird's eye view."

"Seriously?" Dean can't believe Bobby of all people would even consider this shit. What the fuck?

"I'm just saying." Bobby tells him.

But Dean doesn't want to hear it. "Well, don't. I mean, what happened to you being against this?"

"Look, I ain't saying Sam's not an ass-full of character defects, but—"

"But what?" Dean prods, because, for him, it's not just the point that he doesn't think Sam can handle the devil.

"Back at Niveus, I watched that kid pull one civilian out after another. He must've saved ten people. Never stopped. Never slowed down. We're hard on him, Dean. We've always been. But, in the meantime, he's been running into burning buildings since he was what? Twelve?"

"Pretty much," Dean replies. It's true after all.

"Look, Sam's got a … a darkness in him. I'm not saying he don't, but he's got a hell of a lot of good in him too."

"I know." Dean knows. Oh, he knows.

"Then you know Sam will beat the devil or die trying. That's the best we could ask for." Bobby pauses as he looks over the oldest Winchester. He's not dumb, deaf, or blind. "So, I gotta ask, Dean, what exactly are you afraid of? Losing? …Or Losing your brother?"

Dean finds it funny how he doesn't even have to think about his answer. Even after everything, after all the shit they've been through, all the shit they've done and said to each other, Sam is still … the frigging air he breathes. It was hard enough when Sam was just off at college, but locked in the cage? A place he can't just drop by and quietly watch him grow up from afar? A place where his brother's going to do worse than just burn? He couldn't deal with it the last time Sam died. And, now, after knowing how he truly feels about the idiot? How in the hell is he supposed to ... ?

Feeling an anguish unlike any other, Dean slowly drops his head into his hands; it's sorrow and defeat turning his insides to fucking mud. It's when he feels Bobby's warm hand on his shoulder that the waterworks he wasn't even aware of desperately threaten to fall. "I know, Son, I know," he hears Bobby say as he shamefully wipes his face. "But sometimes when you love someone there still comes a time when you gotta learn how to let 'em go."

[xx]

A few hours later, in front of the garage, Sam's on the hood of the Impala, leaning back against the windshield and drinking a beer. Dean walks up to him, grabs his own drink from the cooler sitting by the front tire.

Sam can already tell that something's bothering Dean since the guy's just standing there with his back to him. So he asks, "Dean, what's going on?"

"I'm in," Dean says, popping the cap off his beer and tossing it to the ground with a flick of his wrist.

"…In with?" Sam asks, completely not following.

"The whole up with Satan thing," Dean tells him, taking a long sip from the long necked bottle. After a hiss, he adds, "I'm on board."

Sam slowly rolls to a sitting position, because this is news to him. Big news. "You're gonna let me say yes?"

"No. That's the thing," Dean explains. "It's not on me to let you do anything. You're a grown—overgrown man. …If this is what you want, I'll back your play."

"That's the last thing I thought you'd ever say," Sam says and it is. But, really, as he thinks about it, he realizes that since Lucifer's been raised, Dean's been pulling some huge surprises on him … and this is just another.

Dean looks away. "Not gonna lie to you though. Goes against every fiber I got. I mean, truth is… You know, watching out for you? It's kind of been my job, you know? More than that, it's kind of who I am. But you're not a kid anymore, Sam. I can't keep treating you like one. You know, maybe I gotta grow up a little too. I don't know if we got a snowball's chance, but,"—A look back to his brother—"… I do know that if anybody can do it, it's you."

"Thank you," Sam says, and he realizes he's been saying that a lot to Dean these days. He also knows how much it took for Dean to come out here and not only support him but to say all this. After all, his brother's never been one for emotional moments. So, all of this means so much to Sam.

"So, if this is what you want… Is this really what you want?" Dean can't help but ask.

Sam already has his answer. In his heart and mind, it's his penance for letting evil walk him astray and also his way of keeping his word to Dean, his oath that he won't ever let him down. "I let him out. I gotta put him back in."

[xx]

As they head to Detroit, where the Devil's supposed to be, and with Castiel almost humanized and snoring in the backseat, Sam pauses in his conversation with Dean.

"Hey, um, on the subject, there's something I gotta talk to you about."

"What?" Dean looks over at Sam, not liking the nervousness in his brother's voice.

Sam looks pointedly back. "If this thing goes our way and I triple-lindy into that box, you know I'm not coming back."

Dean looks away. "Yeah, I'm aware."

"So, you gotta promise me something," Sam says, boring a hole into his brother's profile with his stare.

"Ok," Dean replies, looking back. "Dude, anything."

"You gotta promise not to try to bring me back."

"What?" That … that Dean can't do.

Sam lifts a brow.

"No." Dean shakes his head. "I didn't sign up for that."

"Dean—" Sam starts but his brother cuts him off.

"You're hell is gonna make my tour look like Graceland. You want me just to sit by and do nothing?"

"Once the cage is shut, you can't go poking at it, Dean. It's too risky."

"No-no-no-no," Dean argues, shaking his head. "As if I'm just gonna let you rot in there."

"Yeah, you are," Sam throws back. "You don't have a choice."

"You can't ask me to do this."

"I'm sorry, Dean, you have to."

"So then, what am I supposed to do?" Dean asks, because he has no idea. Without Sam… Without Sam, he's lost.

But Sam has a plan for him. "You go find Lisa," he says even as Dean turns away with a frown. "You pray to God she's dumb enough to take you in. And—And you have barbeques and go to football games… You go live some normal apple pie life, Dean. Promise me!"

It's true that a family of his own is a fantasy that he sometimes dreams about, but that's just what it is. It's a fantasy. He knows that, because what he really wants is… Who he really wants to be with is… Fuck. He just wants Sam not to take that dive. Not to fucking leave him again, because… because…

[xx]

Ten minutes later, when Sam finally follows Castiel's example and falls asleep while the moon is still out, Dean looks over at his brother and he knows. He knows once again that it's always been there, like a bacterial growth that multiplied inside him so much so that he's infected beyond all belief. Truth is he might learn to love someone, but man, woman, or child, he's never going to love them as much as he loves Sam.

There's just not enough room in his heart for anyone else, because this stupid sasquatch is stuck in there, taking up so much fucking space with all his too-long limbs, stupid dimpled smiles, and all that girlie fucking hair of his that always makes Dean want to run and get the scissors while the sorry bastard's asleep. Sadly, the idiot's the only thing that makes him feel whole. Sam's the only thing that ever keeps him going in a world where he's constantly wading through the muck and it kills Dean to know that, come tomorrow, he's going to lose him. And this time, because of his stupid fucking promise to him, it's going to be forever.

_Damn you, Sam, _Dean thinks even as his heart swells up a little while looking him over.

[xx]

Hours later, after Lucifer took over Sam's body and disappeared with it, Dean's walking toward the Impala, intent on heading to where the big showdown's supposed to be happening: Stull Cemetery, an old bone yard outside of Lawrence, Kansas.

"You going someplace?" Bobby calls out. "You're gonna go do something stupid. You got that look."

Dean turns to see both Bobby and Castiel coming up behind him. "I'm gonna go talk to Sam," he says, already knowing that this news won't be taken well by his two friends. After all, with their last option a bust — Sam having failed — they're all doom and gloom.

Bobby just shakes his head. "You just don't give up."

"It's Sam!" Dean shouts, because what is he supposed to do? They're family! He's his brother! And he … he fucking loves the frigging idiot!

"If you couldn't reach him here then you certainly are not going to be able to do so on the battlefield," Castiel informs him.

But Dean already knows this and he doesn't care. "Well, if we've already lost, then I guess I got nothing to lose, right?"

"I just want you to understand," Castiel tries to reason. "The only thing that you're going to see out there is Michael killing your brother."

But Dean has words of his own, because it doesn't matter. Nothing matters more to him than Sam. "Well, then I ain't gonna let him die alone," he says, because if he's not allowed to bring his brother back from the dead, he'll damn well go out with him. It doesn't matter that the devil's inside him. That's still his brother. That's still _his_ Sam.

[xx]

In the middle of Stull Cemetery, the sun catches a set of green eyes from the glare in the Impala's passenger side window. Staring at the army man stuck in the vehicle's door-side ashtray, Lucifer's grip on Sam slips for just the briefest second and it is in that moment that years and years of memories flood through Sam Winchester's mind and punches even further through the evil being's hold. Each and every flash has to do with the bleeding and bruised man at his feet that has never truly left his side, the sole person who has unconditionally loved him since the day he was born and forgiven him time and time again when even he's felt unworthy of such absolution. Dean.

In that moment, it's like a rusty valve is finally reopening in Sam's heart, one that's always been there just waiting to be released. It floods his system now with an oddly familiar sensation; in fact, it's a deep love for his brother that he used to innocently know as a child. But it's different, now, because its not completely blind adoration and devotion. He sees Dean's flaws and he embraces them as well, acknowledges them as the things that make his brother human, make him who he is. Old enough to understand, to truly realize and want what he feels, Sam looks upon Dean and doesn't just love, but is _in_ love with every multi-faceted piece, every rough-edge side of his brother that, yes, may be fucked up beyond repair but are all parts of Dean - _his_ Dean - to see.

God help him, as he stands there, temporarily devoid of the Devil's influence, Sam's intricate feelings for Dean even far exceeds the love he once had for Jess and that's saying something since it took years - years! - to finally begin to move past her death. But he has, because this feeling spilling out of him is love and there is simply no way to contain it. Fortunately, it's Sam's suddenly awakened feelings for Dean that shakes the devil's hold completely; for even the darkest being can't withstand something as ancient and pure as love, a power as timeless as God itself.

Gasping and in control of his body and mind again, Sam fully takes in what his own fists have done, to the bloodied mess that used to be his brother's face, to the one who his heart now calls out for. However, he doesn't have time to feel disgusted with what Lucifer has done to Dean with his own body. He's got other things to worry about. "It's alright," he says. "It's alright, Dean. I got him."

Taking out the horsemen's rings that's thankfully still in his pocket, Sam lets their connected mass fall to the ground, behind him. Grass and soil immediately crumbles away as Hell's mouth opens. But, as he said, everything's going to be alright, because Sam's ready to be swallowed. However, he's not doing this to save millions. Fuck the world. Sam's only doing this for one person. Just one. His brother. The one he loves. Dean.

As the wind whips his hair and he pumps himself up for the fall, a memory washes over him. Amongst the many fuckups in his life, one flame of regret burns the brightest in his heart. In truth, it wasn't a regret back then, because he'd been too blinded to his own feelings on the matter. But standing there on the edge of a precipice made of earth and hellfire, Sam wishes for nothing more than to right this particular wrong.

Sam sees himself hovering over Dean's heavily medicated and alcohol induced form lying on a bed in a dingy motel room. He's just finished suturing up his brother's side and Dean's hand is on his face. Remembering the look of longing in his brother's eyes that had both shocked and quite frankly disturbed him then, Sam can still almost feel the touch that no longer unsettles his heart. On the contrary, he craves for it now.

Seconds away from freefalling, Sam yearns to feel it once more, desperately desires to know what it would feel like to feel Dean's lips pressed against his own, because if he's going to burn anyway, why the hell should he care about what's right and what's supposed to be wrong? Filled with so many feelings, Sam goes to return the look that Dean had once given him, but Michael, in Adam's body, ruins the moment.

"Sam! It's not gonna end this way! Step back!"

"You're gonna have to make me!" Sam yells in return.

"I have to fight my brother, Sam! Here and now! It's my destiny!"

Sam turns his eyes back to a battered Dean and he knows just how wrong that particular belief is. There's always a choice, another way when it comes to family. Fuck God. Fuck the Devil. He chooses Dean. With one last look at his brother, Sam closes his eyes and even with Michael grabbing onto his arm, he's already falling-falling-falling.


	6. Chapter 6

That night, a healed Dean flicks angry eyes to a resurrected Castiel sitting in the passenger seat of the Impala. Speaking of God — the one who they both believe to have brought the angel back — he vindictively growls as he watches the painted lines, on the road, continuously passing under his baby's hood by the bright glow of the headlights, "Well, if you do see him, tell him I'm coming for him next."

Taken aback, as much as a stiff-necked angel can be, Castiel turns his burning, blue-eyed stare on Dean. "You're angry."

Dean looks away with a curled lip. "That's an understatement." It is, because he may be made of flesh and bone, but he's also living fire as he fumes behind the wheel. His extreme anguish makes him sound ungrateful as he thinks: _I'm back to my friggin original one hundred and ten percent and Bobby's back and Cas' back, but what about my brother, you bastard! What about Sam! Why isn't Sam?_

"He helped," Castiel tries to explain in that monotone that does nothing but boil Dean's blood. "Maybe even more than we realize."

Dean doesn't want to listen, because he's hurting so fucking badly he can only taste the pain; its metallic, like the taste of blood, like the stuff currently leaking from the gaping hole in his wounded heart. "Yeah, well, that's easy for you to say. He brought you back, but what about Sam? What about me? Huh? Where's my grand prize? All I got was my friggin brother in a hole!"

"You got what you asked for, Dean." Castiel further reminds, in a gentle yet stern voice only the angel can produce. "No paradise. No hell. Just more of the same. I mean it, Dean. What would you rather have? Peace or freedom?"

But Dean's answer is neither, because he doesn't give two shits about anything right now but what he's lost. And what's he's lost is Sam, his whole reason for living. The truth is Dean didn't want Cas to save him on that graveyard turned battlefield; he didn't want his external and internal injuries healed. On his knees, above that sewn together ground, above where his brother had tragically fallen, Dean hadn't been praying for a miracle that he knew would never come. He'd been praying for death, praying that he wouldn't be going against his word to Sam if his wounds were bad enough to take him from this earth.

No. Like then, even now, every part of him, every fiber Dean's has wants to die or find a way to bring Sam back. But, unfortunately, he isn't going to do either, because he made a promise. For the one he cares about so much that he unwittingly became tainted, even if it kills him, he's going to go and try to love another … because that's the right thing to do, that's what _Sam_ had _wanted_ him to do. And as always, what Sammy wants … Sammy gets.

_Dammit, Sam,_ Dean thinks with tears burning in his eyes, after he hears the quick flutter of angelic wings — Castiel's abrupt departure. Hollowly staring at the space to his right that is once again empty — so frigging empty — he internally adds: _If this is what you want, man, I'll do it. …I'll do it. But, fuck, only because you—Only because you told me to. Only because you…you won't let me join you or try to bring your sorry friggin ass back._

In hindsight, Dean should probably pull over since he can't exactly see shit past the wet blur in his eyes, but he keeps right on going anyway. He does, because he knows that if he doesn't make this drive right-the-fuck now, he may never. And he can't do that, because he promised and Dean Winchester keeps his promises … even if they hurt like absolute hell.

[xx]

As the blue tarp lies crumpled in the corner of the neatly arranged garage, Dean's sitting behind the wheel of the uncovered Impala, but her engine is off and he has no intention of taking her out for a drive. Not with the garage door still down and the remote nowhere to be found. He's just sitting there, in her interior, taking comfort in her familiar smell and her well-known feel under his hips and thighs. He's not even clutching a screwdriver, a wrench, or even a beer; he has no excuse to cover why he's out here. He just is.

The truth is it's been months, almost a year, but he always finds his way back to her side. After work, before work, on the weekends, during a lunch break, before dinner, after dinner, it doesn't matter. After living his life on the road for so long, when he gets that itch to just up and leave everything behind, when he can no longer take the Sam-shaped hole cut out of his soul, he always finds his way out here and his girl somehow always manages to talk him down. Well, her and Sam. Because, like now, he's inwardly bleeding as he pulls out that creased photo from his wallet. And, in the next second, he's talking to his brother like he never left.

"Lisa's cousin Karen just had a baby today," Dean says as he stares down at his brother's young smiling face captured in the photo that's secretly seen so much use over the years. "Lees dragged me and Ben down to the hospital to go see her. Had a boy. Cute little thing got passed around to everybody in the room. Everyone wanting to hold him, you know? When it got to be my turn, you know me, said I didn't need to. That I was fine 'cause I was. I mean, I'm a dude and these hands are—_were_ for taking life, not holding it, but, like pecking hens, they all insisted. So I held him, Sammy. I held him and you know… You know, I could just _feel_Lisa staring at me, giving me that _look_ and I know what she was thinking, but god help me I—"

Quickly rolling eyes up toward the ceiling, Dean haggardly goes on, "Wasn't thinking 'bout what she was thinking, Sammy, I—" Even with his best efforts, tears still end up rolling down through his lashes, all over his cheeks, just like they had in that goddamn hospital. "I was too busy thinking about you, man. I—I was holding that baby and all I could think about was the first time Mom let me hold you."

With the hand not holding the picture, Dean shamefully wipes his eyes over and over as he's once again weighed down with the burden that's always been his to bear. "Fucking months, man, it's been fucking months, almost a goddamn year, and I still—I still wake up some days hoping and praying that—that this is all just some messed up dream. I mean, Lisa's been great. She's been great, man, and Ben's an awesome kid. So frigging smart, but it's just… You're a part of me, Sammy, always have been. Friggin love you so fucking much shit got twisted and I—I can't just turn that off, you know?"

Dean brushes off the dripped beads of water that have fallen onto the photo, before he finds the strength to continue. "Sammy, I—I tried. I fucking tried, man. For Lisa's sake, for your sake, fuck for my own, but I still—I still..." The fact of the matter is the fire inside him still burns brightly for the one that can never return, the one that he should never have loved. Not in that way. Never in that way. "Want you here with me, man, bitching at me, telling me what I shouldn't eat, how much I shouldn't drink, how fast I shouldn't drive… I just—I just want you here, Sammy. Fuck, man, I just—I just _need_you _here_."

Grief washes over Dean anew and his forehead slowly lowers to the steering wheel as his tears soak deep into his jeans. Alone with the ghost of his brother and all their painful yet wonderful memories together, he once again lets himself break apart inside the Impala's comforting embrace. Fact is she's always been the one to hold him like this when he feels so goddamn torn apart. Even now, even with Lisa. Once again, he hears his brother's otherworldly reminder.

_You have barbeques and go to football games… You go live some normal apple pie life, Dean. Promise me!_

At that stupidly fucking familiar voice he hears even in his dreams, Dean finally finds the willpower to try and push forward again, to do as he has promised. Looking down at the creased photo still clutched tightly in his shaking hands, he hoarsely tells the image of the one he can't help but — right or wrong — feel so many things for, "I promised you, Sam. I did and I am, man. I'm really friggin trying here, but it's just — Sammy, sometimes it's just — Fuck. It's just so goddamn hard without you."

[xx]

Almost two years to the date since he'd taken that swan dive into a certain hole, Sam Winchester is alive, but he's not well as he lies on a white sheet-covered, king-sized mattress with his eyes closed. In Scranton, Pennsylvania's Delta Motel, he's alone in the room built for two as a steady _shaa_ is heard outside the single window by the bed. But Sam's not listening to the rain. Even hopped up on sleeping pills and several shots of whiskey, sleep continuously evades him; for, on the back of his lids, a memory is playing out, but, for once, this is not one of hell. Regardless, the anguish it evokes inside him is nothing less painful.

_In a shambles of a room with a single cot to his brother's back, Dean tentatively asks him as they stand facing each other for the first time in twelve months. "How long've you been back, Sam?"_

"_About a year."_

"_About a year?"_

"_Dean—"_

"_You've been back practically this whole time? What? Did you lose the ability to send a friggin text message?"_

"_You finally had what you wanted, Dean."_

"_I wanted my brother! Alive!"_

"_You wanted a family. You have for a long time, maybe the whole time. I know you. You only gave it up because of the way we lived. But you had something and you were building something. Had I shown up, Dean, you would've just run off. I'm sorry. But it felt like, after everything, you deserved a regular life."_

The memory fades from Sam's mind as he opens his glassy eyes and blurrily stares at the shadows dancing over the ceiling. The reel that had played out behind his lids was a recollection of a time when his body was without a soul — after his body had been rescued from the pit by a well meant Castiel — when his soulless self had first made contact with a domesticated Dean.

His falsely emotional, wholly forced words then had been a means to lessen his brother's rage — nothing else — but Sam still feels the underlying truth. Its why — above the danger of grievously sinning — he's desperately kept his feelings, that have survived even the hellish torture of the pit, in check. The truth he'd learned is that Dean had in fact kept his promise to try and live out a life with Lisa and Ben and that's why, even against that biting hurt that cuts into him like barbed wire to skin, he'd urged Dean into trying to work things out with her when they had still been together — back when Lisa still knew who his brother was, before Castiel put the whammy on her and Ben's minds.

After all, besides having finally learned how to love a woman (Dean had come to love Lisa, Sam _knows_ this) his brother had come to know what it was like to help raise a son, had tasted what it was like to try and hold together a family of his own. And Sam knows that's not something a man can just up and forget. It bleeds into you, becomes a part of you. He completely understands, because, at one time so very long ago, he had wanted the same thing with Jess.

So, Sam knows he has no right to hate Lisa, a woman who had taken great care of his brother, loved him with all her heart, while he'd been locked away. After all, when all is said and done, Sam knows he's the one who forced Dean into that life and he knows that when Dean does something, it's never half-assed. Never has been. Even still… He can't help hide that small, sharp, bitter resentment toward her due to one thing and one thing only.

The truth is, even if Dean miraculously overlooks all the reasons why they shouldn't and ends up giving this twisted thing between them a chance, even if Sam tries with everything he has, he can never truly make his brother happy. Not really, because the reality is that marriage and children are things, pieces of a desired dream that he knows now that Dean wants and he can _never_ _ever_ give. It's hard for Sam to admit, but there it is. It's a harsh and simple fact.

To Sam, that's why his brother deserves so much more than he could ever offer. That's why, even as they've ended up sharing the same bed, due to the hell-induced nightmares that force him to pop pills and drink, he will wage that war inside him and keep playing the role that he was always meant to play. Brother. He will do so, because — above it being obviously wrong and for so many reasons — he truly believes now that Dean's lover is something he never had a right to be.

No. Not if he wants Dean to hold on to that hope of one day having a loving wife and three point five children … even if they both know now that that dream is nothing but a beautiful lie. But hunters live off of lies. They thrive on illusive dreams, because if they don't, knowing there is no end to their job will drive them crazy and just what in the hell will keep them going when everything around them looks so god awful bleak?

No. To Sam, he truly feels that he doesn't have the right to try and erase that hidden desire buried deep in his brother's heart. He has no right to try and shatter that bittersweet dream. So, alone in their bed, Sam tries to push away his own warped feelings as he tries to let the pills and whiskey do their thing, help him get over the fear of seeing the inside of the cage again so he can feel the much needed embrace of sleep.

[xx]

Even as Sam lies struggling with another bout of disabling insomnia, his brother sits outside, in the parking lot, like the true coward he is.

_Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!_

Dean Winchester viciously chases his angry thoughts with another swig of whiskey. With a hiss, he lowers the half-empty bottle, resting it between the crease of his thighs, as he sits behind the wheel of the rain-beaten Impala parked in front of their red-bricked motel. The engine is off and his keys are in his pocket, but he's not getting out of the vehicle. Not yet.

Through the downpour that obscures his already hazy vision, his glassy eyes stay fixated on the tarnished number plate reading room 105, beneath the sidewalk's propped up, plastic overhang. As the falling sheets of water continuously pelt the vehicle's windows and do their damndest to dent his poor baby's metal frame, Dean hears Ellen Harvelle's raspy voice echoing in his ears; it's a ghostly whisper first heard so many years ago in a certain bar.

"_You know, Son, it's when we start feeling like we got nothing left that we starting doing dangerous things to the people we do."_

_I'm fucked up, Ellen,_ Dean thinks with blood-shot eyes as he takes another long pull from his bottle. _I've been fucked up for a while and now it's gotten even…_

The deceased bartender/hunter and mother of one had meant how losing her husband had ended up making her suffocate her daughter Jo. But Ellen's words still hold meaning to Dean, because, after losing Lisa and Ben and ultimately Castiel, and already feeling so much for Sam that he knows he never should, to Dean, sharing a bed with his brother is something close to torture. It's the worst idea ever conceived, because although he's only been sleeping on the same mattress so he can feel Sam's thrashing and immediately wake the poor guy — rescue Sam from his own mind — Dean's also been…

Knowing he's in love with his brother is one thing, but for Dean, wanting to touch him is entirely another. And each night he's spent next to Sam has been fucking ripping him up inside, because the urge to do just that keeps getting worse and worse. Yes, he feels something profound for Lisa — as much as he still can — but it's been months and Sam's always been stuck inside him, in deep, dark places that he's surprisingly still finding out about. And now that he finally has the idiot back at his side? All of him? Every single hell-damaged, glued-together sweet, sweet motherfucking piece?

Being forced to lie there next to Sam every night, since his brother drunkenly told him it helps, Dean's arms have been insanely itching to reach out and pull the guy into the warmth of his chest and he doesn't cuddle. Maybe he had with Lisa, but not with Sam. Never with his own fucking brother. But his troubles don't stop there. Oh, no. Along with wanting to feel Sam's body next to his own, he's had to try to desperately keep his hands from attempting to rub his brother's arms and back under a false guise of helping to soothe the poor guy into sleep. False is right, because it would be nothing but a lie. Calm is the last thing his greedy hands want to produce.

Oh, but his mouth… Christ, Dean's traitorous fucking lips have been wanting to try to kiss away those little frigging whimpers Sam always makes when he first starts into the nightmares that always leave him twisting and shaking under the covers. Fuck. He wants to suck face with his own brother. But even worse than that, the thought of going further, the idea of Sam's slicked skin and hard muscle underneath his hands and lips have been making Dean rock fucking hard. Hell, just that morning, he'd jerked off to images of softcore porn starring him and Sam under those shared, white sheets. Goddammit, he's so completely messed up over Sam. So fucked in both the head and heart over his own brother.

Which, in a way, is funny, because Dean's always — always! — been one for the ladies. Never looked twice at another man. But why? Why when it comes to Sam does neither gender nor blood relation seem to matter? _Why the hell doesn't it matter?_But the weirdest part? The part he can't even begin to understand_ — above the gay incest point — i_sthe fact that he doesn't actually even want to fuck Sam, at least not in the shove his dick up in places that it has absolutely no business belonging way. Crazily enough, he just wants to do everything else but that. He just wants to blanket Sam's huge ass body with his own, crush him with his weight and suck up the expelled breath from his lungs through so many heated kisses. He wants to slot himself between his brother's miles of spread legs and grind and try to merge their two forms into one. He wants to feel Sam's thumping heartbeat drumming against his naked chest, wants to try and sync it up with his own as he touches and kisses him everywhere and tells him shit that would never normally come out of his own fucking mouth.

Dean knows these desires should horrify him and leave his skin all kinds of creepy-crawly, because brothers aren't supposed to do that and it's just not fucking _him_ . Yet … disgusted is the last thing he feels and it _is_ him. It has to be, because it's what he actually wants. It's what his heart and body actually craves.

But Dean can't do it. He can't do any of that, because Sam can't ever know the ugly truth. The guy can't ever find out about this new tainted desire Dean just can't seem to fucking shake. If Sam found out and tried to leave him after all of this — because how could anyone want to continue to ride with a brother that wants to touch them in such sickening ways — Dean just… Dean just doesn't know what he'd do. With drawn together brows, over pained eyes, Dean next says to the one hidden on the other side of the door he can't bring himself to get up and walk through.

_So fuckin sorry, man. I don't even—I mean, I never meant to— …Sam, I know you said you sleep better when I'm there, that it makes you feel safer cause it reminds you of when we were kids, but, man, I—I'm having a hard time dealing with this shit right now. But I swear. I swear I'll get past it. I will. I just—I need time. But I promise, man, I will._

[xx]

An hour and a half later, Dean's standing by the edge of his side of their bed with the darkened room spinning around him. It's when he's pulling off his rain-damped shirts — got soaked from the short walk from the car — that he hears a sleepy call of his name from behind him. _Shit_, he thinks. Dean had been banking on Sam already having been asleep. _Oh well,_ he sighs. Not much he can do about it now. Bare-chested and with his twisted shirts dangling from a hand, he turns around and peers through the darkness to see a blurry image of Sam's outline curiously propped up on an elbow.

"S' alright," Dean slurs, tossing his wet clothes across the room, over the nearest chair — completely missing it. "Go back … sleep. S' jus' me."

"Dean," he next hears as he unsteadily unbuckles his pants and stumbles out of his jeans, tripping on the inside of one of the legs and almost landing face-down on the bed. "It's almost three."

"S' it?" Dean dumbly asks as he pulls the blankets back. "'—n't know," he adds as he slides into bed. It's not a lie, because he hadn't really been looking at the clock when he'd been drinking to make himself tired enough to want to pass out and just sleep. Getting tanked to where he wouldn't have to lay awake and be tempted was his brilliant master plan after all; Dean never said he was a genius. (He'll leave that title for Sam.) Thankfully, safely tucked away on his side of the wide bed, all he wants to do is close his eyes and snore-snore-snore.

However, even after snuggling down into his pillow with his back determinedly set to his brother, Dean can still feel the heat of Sam's stare, between the tense lines of his shoulders. Without opening his eyes, he croaks out a grouchy, "Sleep … bitch." He doesn't want to play twenty questions, because he sure as hell doesn't want to try and come up with any answers off the top of his head. He can barely see straight, much less pull any rabbits out of his ass.

Thankfully, instead of being grilled or given any smart-alecky remarks, Dean hears Sam sigh in frustration and then feels the mattress moving as the guy finally goes about lying back down. Feeling an irritated tug of the covers that forcefully slips them through his curled fingers, Dean listens to Sam moodily trying to get comfortable. Guy's always been a bitchy bitch when drunk and Dean knows Sam took those over-the-counter pills to go along with the cheap whiskey in an effort to get some sleep. (Hell, he's the one who's been supplying him with the stuff since day one after all.)

When the mattress finally stills and sweet seconds of silence lapse into what feels like minutes, Dean starts to drift off … until he feels the bed rudely moving underneath him again. Internally groaning, he feels he should've known better than to believe that things were going to be this easy. As for Sam, he can't help himself. With Dean _finally_ in bed with him, he can't help but want to do what he's been doing for the past several nights. Yet again swallowing his pride, he quickly scoots the rest of the way over and slides his back up against Dean's. He does so, secretly feeling like a kitten that's rediscovered its favorite place to sleep.

Already too far on the edge of the bed to move away, Dean's hand, beside his pillow, automatically grips the side of the mattress. There's that fucking feeling to reach out and touch a certain someone again. Unaware to Dean, Sam isn't completely oblivious to the startled tension in his brother's body as he quietly gives him a, "Night." No. Sam knows Dean too well to be blinded to his sudden change in behavior. Fact is he's all too aware of Dean's new attraction toward him and he's not disgusted in the slightest even though he knows he_should_ be. But Sam's not, because due to his own feelings, when he looks at the guy, now, he sees Dean the sharp-edged hunter and sometimes annoying older man and not Dean his huge-egoed, always arrogant big brother.

The odd thing is that Sam's never been attracted to men before, but he doesn't question it because it's Dean. Still, feeling his brother's warmth through the thin tee he's wearing, Sam tries to tell himself that this is enough, that he doesn't need anything just wishes his heart would agree with his head. As for Dean, he's suddenly so very thankful for his alcohol-induced exhaustion, because that desperate want to turn over and wrap Sam up in his arms may be there in his veins, like some kind of treacherous poison, but it's a dulled down venom. It's just merely sitting there beneath the surface as he relinquishes his hold on the mattress and lets the sweet pull of sleep call him home.

And, just like that, Sam soon follows him into dreamland as well.

[xx]

An hour and a half later, Dean wakes to a sharp kick to the back of his leg. Even with his eyes slowly prying themselves open and still feeling drunk, he knows exactly what that means. Sam's having another hell-induced nightmare. Fact is the poor guy is. Writhing on his side, in his mind, Sam's seeing images of Dean being flayed alive and then made whole just so it can start all over again; for his hellish torture, in the cage, hadn't strictly remained physical. After all, as Dean had once said, it's always been widely known that they're each other's Achilles' heel.

"—am," Dean calls, turning over with a spurt of quickness in his lethargic muscles. "Sam. Come on, man," he hoarsely croaks as he pulls his brother down, onto his back, below him. Even under the cover of darkness, Dean sees the tear tracks glistening on his brother's face and he hears those goddamn whimpers that shake his heart even as he tries to shake his brother awake. "Sam. Sammy, wake up!"

Sam finally does and with a start. His lids fly open and he's panting, haggard and heavy. Blinking owlish wet eyes, Sam looks up to see Dean hovering over him with concern written all over his dark-circled, baggy-eyed features. Too much feeling like he's still in limbo, that world between reality and dreams, he doesn't even fight off the impulse driven deep into his bones from the nightmare. He crushes himself against Dean's half naked form in one swift movement meant to reaffirm both his existence and his brother's healthy condition.

On his back now, with Sam's large form pinning him down and bear hugging the breath from his body, Dean tries to speak. "Hey," he croaks into tufts of sleep-mused hair. "Hey, it's ok. Sam. Come on, man. It's ok."

Sam's too busy burying his face in the juncture of his brother's neck and shoulder to really hear. Wrapped up in too long, trembling legs and arms and hearing and feeling his brother's chest heaving against his own, Dean's suddenly reminded of a younger version of his brother doing just this. Sam had been five-years-old then, plagued with a nightmare about killer clowns. During that time, Dean had playfully made fun of him to help ease his fear. But he knows that won't work here. In truth, he doesn't exactly know what to do. So, he just lets Sam wetly vent his emotions all over the crook of his neck as the guy continues to squeeze him like a large boa constrictor.

After a long minute, Sam finally wheezes from his place just by Dean's ear. "M' sorry, I just—"

"S' alright," Dean tells him, because it is. Having done a tour down south himself, he completely understands. He doesn't even want to think about what Sam's just seen, but, by his brother's actions, its more than obvious to Dean that it had to do with him and that right there makes Dean take all the extra touching being forced upon him; for Sam's not the only one who's been tortured by horrific visions of his family. Demons know their entire genealogy after all.

"Just," Dean adds, awkwardly patting Sam's arm with a bent one of his own, "you know, gotta let me go. Need to take a piss."

Still shaken up from his vision, Sam reluctantly lets Dean go and rolls, still trembling, onto his back. He's staring at the ceiling and wiping at his wet face with the stretched out bottom of his shirt as his brother gets up to go use the bathroom. Dean does it to both relieve his bladder and give Sam a moment or two to gather his bearings. He knows he needs a little space after that. Hell, they both do. When he comes back out, followed by the flush of the toilet, Sam is still laying there, staring at nothing, but his face is dry and his shaking has dulled down to a mere barely there quiver. Dean heads back over to the bed, but, even sliding under the covers, he knows for a fact that sleep is the last thing either of them is going to get; Sam because of the fear and himself because of his worry.

And like a scene being played out, the usual spiel is said between them. Equally staring up at his section of the ceiling, Dean hears the urged, "You should go back to sleep."

"Can't," he replies. He wants to, but, yeah, he can't.

"Sorry, man, didn't mean to wake you," he hears Sam add and he also knows the guy hadn't. However, he also knows his brother's in his self-depreciation mode as well. Always slips into it after a nightmare. It's like old hat now.

"S' ok," Dean says, and to him it is. But he knows Sam won't agree.

The guy doesn't disappoint. "No, it's not."

But to Dean, "Yes, it is." He doesn't mind losing a little — ok, a lot — of sleep if it means Sam won't continue to suffer. He only wishes he had opened up to his brother like this back when he was fresh from his stint in hell. Then again, he knows he never could. It's just not in his nature, not his particular style.

As for Sam, maybe it's because of his unstable state or maybe it's because of his lack of sleep or maybe, just maybe it's because he actually means them, but Sam suddenly fills the sudden tense silence with even heavier words. They hold a double meaning, one he knows Dean will pick up on. "Sorry you're always losing things because of me."

"Sam—" Dean warns, because he can read between the lines and he told Sam never to bring up Lisa. He told him! But Sam's too into hating himself at the moment and feeling like he's already opened that particular can of worms. So, he figures why not just let it all spill out. (Or at least the less incriminating parts of it.) He thinks it's about time anyway, especially since he's still feeling completely off his game when it comes to his brother due to the nightmarish memory.

"No, listen, I gotta say this, Dean. I just— I just gotta ok? So just let me?" he all but pleads and he does have to say this, because the guilt has always been there since the moment he found out the truth of Dean's promise to him. And at his brother's stoic silence, he continues on as he turns on his side to regard Dean who won't look at him. "You loved her. I know you did. Ben too. And I—" Meaning himself, he finishes with ire, "Sometimes I wish that selfish bastard never came and got y—"

"Sam, you don't—"

"No, man, listen," Sam insists over him. "This isn't the kind of life anyone would actually want. And we both know you don't want it anymore. Not even riding with me. But I can't blame you. I mean, come on, you had a family. A normal life with a goddamn roof over your head. You had it good, Dean. You had it more than good. You were living every hunter's dream and I—I fucked that up for you. And so I—I just wanted to say that I— …Look, man, I'm sorry."

At that, Dean tries to bite his tongue, tries to hold it all in, but soldered steel couldn't keep his mouth shut. Not now. Not after hearing such utter bullshit and it is. Oh, it so is.

"Don't you dare," Dean growls, angrily turning on his side. Glaring daggers at his brother's profile, he shakes with every quivering word, "Don't you dare fucking lay there and tell me your fucking sorry for coming—! No! Fuck you, Sam! Seriously, fuck you because you don't get to do that! You don't get to lay there and feel fucking sorry for yourself when I was—! Do you have any idea what it was like without—? Fuck!"

Pissed as hell at Sam and himself, Dean's back bounces on the mattress as he angrily flops back onto it and lies there furiously scrubbing hands over his face. "Dean?" he hears and fuck-it-all if Sam isn't hovering over him like some goddamn worried mother hen. He suddenly hates the bastard for that too. Why can't the guy ever just leave shit alone?

Sam ignores the furious push to his arm that he knows is gonna leave a bruise. Hell, he'd almost buckled under the force, but he knows it's just his brother's automatic reflex to his concern. After all, it's just always been Dean's way, Dean's deterrent to keep him at arm's length. Still, Sam won't be discouraged. Not this time, because his heart is pounding on his ribcage and it has nothing to do with his hellish memories anymore. It's all Dean.

"Dean?" Sam calls again, half lying across his brother's upper body, propped up on hands to the mattress, on either side of Dean's shoulders. He's staring down at the arm covering the guy's obvious leaking eyes as he prods, "Talk to me, man. Come on." He's not even sure what he wants Dean to say or what he even wants to say in return, but Sam can't leave his brother like this. Something compels him to keep driving headlong into the fray.

"Shut up, Sam," Dean brokenly barks back, trying to shove his back in Sam's face, but Sam's quick to put a stop to that. A large hand is holding down his shoulder, keeping him from completing the rotation. Holding him steady, Sam literally and figuratively does what he always does. He pushes.

"Don't shut me out here, Dean. Feels like I've been saying this for years, but, seriously, man, if you got something to say then just say it."

"Fuck you," Dean growls around a traitorous sniffle and Jesus Christ if he doesn't sound like some kind of potty-mouthed, bratty, little frigging kid. That's shame twisting his gut to go along with that spark of anger in his chest because of it.

However, Sam decides to take a page out of a teenaged Dean's book. He tries to soothe his brother with playful words even as his own eyes suddenly burn with the threat of unshed tears. His words hit home even as he says them. "So … take it you missed me?"

The barbed, "Who the hell would miss you?" he hears still makes his heart swell as Dean tries to turn away again with a hard tug against the large hand perpetually holding down his shoulder. But Sam's not going to let him pull away. He can't, because he's suddenly too busy staring down at his brother's quivering lips that are just below the forearm laid across Dean's covered eyes. Curtained by tear tracks, that lush mouth calls to Sam so sweetly, makes him almost forget why he's been keeping himself in check. But Dean's admission and his own frazzled nerves keep that black desire right on building inside him, until he feels like he's going to burn up, like so much dried wood.

After all, Sam's always been the weakest one between them, at least when it comes to the darkness inside. He figures why should the sin of incest be any different? Still, halfway down to claim his prize, he manages to stop himself. Minutely. After a heartbeat, he's suddenly lying bare a truth that even torture couldn't make into a lie. "It's ok, Dean. …Missed you too."

Dean stills and his heart freezes in his chest; it's a sharp-edged piece of ice encaged in bone, because the way Sam had said it? No. His own twisted feelings must have him jumping at shadows. They must, because no way would Sam… It's not possible. It can't be. Still, something makes Dean lift his arm, makes him seek affirmation to his thoughts. But when he peeks out from under his covering limb, what he sees destroys all his delusions. It does because his wet gaze is immediately taking in how close Sam is — veritable inches away — and that peculiar flicker in his brother's eyes. Even the darkness can't conceal that shine. God, that's lust burning brightly in those pupil-blown orbs and that's Sam's fucking mouth hovering so goddamn close to his own!

"Sam?" Dean calls, fearful, confused, and desperately hopeful all at the same time. How the hell did Sam… Was it him? Dean's own self-loathing suddenly makes him inwardly shout if it was him who had inadvertently done something to make his brother this way.

But for Sam, it's not that easy to break down the how's and why's. It's never been a single action or moment that made him feel the way he does for Dean. It's a collective of happenstances between them that only years of fighting evil together and living out of each other's pockets could produce. And now, since having heard Dean's angry and overly protested words that cultivated, wrongful love inside Sam is bursting at the seams, desperately trying to see the light of day and Sam can do nothing but let it out. So, instead of pulling away like he knows he should, he just repeats his apology from before.

But this time, it holds a whole new meaning. "Dean," he quietly breathes as his mouth lowers another fraction of an inch. "M' sorry." And he is. Oh, sweet Jesus, he is, because he knows he has no right to do this, has no right to try and shatter Dean's dream and idea of what family could and should be, but, even so, he just can't stop himself. Not now. Not when he knows that, even with Lisa, Dean still managed to harbor so much for him. It's so very flattering and so goddamn maddening and it's suddenly enough to cling to. It's enough to hope ... even if he knows how truly wrong and ill-fated this is.

"Sa—?" Dean tries to say, but he's suddenly cut off by the soft caress of his brother's tender lips.

It's a simple kiss, just a press, but it's a firm one. It's still enough to set his entire world alight, like a flash of wildfire felt both inside and out. Some of it could be due to the fact that he hasn't felt the touch of another person since Lisa, but Dean knows the truth. It's all Sam. As he'd said before, even if he's never been into guys, male or female, his brother has never been just anyone. Sam's been his entire world for so long that he's no longer man nor brother, he's just simply Sam. His Sammy and fuck,,, Kissing him feels like finally finding that place to settle down in, that place he doesn't ever want to pack up and leave.

Mouth firmly to mouth with his hands coming up from the bed to thread through too long hair, fear, doubt, and images of their mother and father are completely overshadowed by the pound of his heart in both his ears and chest. It's like an angry fist to a dented door. Each bang of flesh against bone screams Sam-Sam-Sam and he can't do anything but heed its call. 

No words are spoken as they pull back just the slightest, to seek affirmation and so many things in each other's eyes. This isn't a byproduct of too much liquor, a curse, or some spell gone wrong. This is just them in high clarity. This is just Sam and Dean locking gazes like it's their very first time. And in a way it is, because they've never seen so much love and affection ingrained in the other's features as they open themselves red and bloody and tainted black with sin for the other to clearly see. Even so, their shared expressions are softer, lighter, wetter, and, for once, it isn't due to the threat of anyone lying at the foot of Death's door. It's because they're still alive and _together_and goddammit! How can this be so wrong when it feels like Heaven?

Then again, Dean amends, he's been to Heaven and it didn't really feel like this. To him, this feels like the greatest Christmas and birthday present all rolled into one, because he never thought — not in a million years! — that Sam could ever share the same fucked up feelings. But he does! And! And! ….But then… But then…Then big brother mode kicks back into gear and he fucking remembers why this can't happen, why this is such a bad idea. No. Scratch that. It's the worst fucking idea ever.

Sam's heart falls as he watches the creases in his brother's face slowly smooth out like polished stone. And then Dean's forehead is pressing into his own and their sharing each other's air like they used to do when they were kids, back when Sam was so scared of the thing in his closet and Dean was trying to calm them both down with their combined familiar touch and warm, shaky breaths. And just like that, Sam already knows what Dean's thinking, what he's going to say before he even says it. In truth, it was always in the back of his mind too, burned in there from torture by both Lucifer and Michael. After all, they've been running from it since they found out it was real. Sam figures why should now be any different?

"Can't let you," he hears Dean wetly say and, fuck, if he doesn't sound completely wrecked even to his own ears. But that's ok. Really, it is, because Sam's a step away from turning into a complete sobbing mess. He's doing his damnedest to hold it all in. "Can't let you go back to hell, Sammy. …Fuck. I want—But I just— …I can't do it."

Even feeling like he's just had his insides hollowed out by a rusty ice-cream scoop, Sam still manages to feel slivers of warmth at his brother's words. After all, Dean's just doing this for him. He just wouldn't be Dean if he wasn't always trying to save him, right? It's why he… It's part of why he fucking fell in love him after all. To be honest, though, it's also partly why he won't force this either. Mouth twitching upward even as his lips tremble, Sam throws back in a broken husk of a voice, "That should be my line."

With Sam half laying on top of him and their faces so close even as they try to rip their feelings for each other so far apart, Dean manages a snort. "Always knew I was gonna die a martyr," he says. His tone is meant to be light, but he just can't quite get it there. It's too pained, too raw, just like he feels.

Sam seems to be having the same problem as he says with a clogged throat and nose, "At least this time we'll go out together … right?"

"Yeah," Dean immediately agrees with a deadened smile that does not reach his wet, red-rimmed eyes. "No shit, 'cause, you know I'll haunt your sorry ass if we don't."

Sam can't help himself. If this is the end of their short-lived beginning, if this is the last they'll ever speak of this, he wants to have something to savor even if it'll make things harder to forget. Without warning, he drops to his elbows and presses his mouth to Dean's once more, but this time he cradles Dean's face in his hands and licks deep-deep-deep between his brother's lips, mapping out every corner, ingraining the taste and feel in his brain. He does so taking comfort in the fact that at least this time he'll die knowing what it feels like to have this. At least this time, this is a regret he won't be taking to the grave. Even if it's only once, it's enough. Sadly, it has to be.

When he finally comes up for air, he looks down at Dean and watches his brother absently licking his lips as he touches on their previous oath.

"Promise?" Sam asks, already knowing the answer but needing to hear it and his brother's thankfully quick to respond.

"Promise," Dean vows, because this time no way could he survive shouldering the burden of having to go on alone.

And instead of the deep, lingering kiss he wants to give his brother to seal the deal in true crossroads fashion, Dean does yet another thing that is totally uncharacteristic of him. He leans back, sinking his head into his pillow, and pulls Sam's head down with hands to his temples. With Sam propped up on either side of his shoulders, Dean graces the creased skin of Sam's forehead with a tender kiss. When he pulls back, he doesn't even mention a thing about the guy having gotten his cheek, jaw, and neck all wet from the tears. He's too busy leaving tracks of his own that are running down into his hair. He doesn't give two shits about being embarrassed or being ashamed or what such a display will do to his man card. He's too busy worrying about how the fuck they're going to continue riding together with this heavy shit sitting between them.

With things settled by Dean's actions, Sam forces himself away. He falls back onto his back with a bounce and once again finds himself staring up at the shadowed ceiling. Lying there and admittedly half-hard even through the pain, Sam's thinking the same thing that Dean is. Temptation is a bitch after all and there is nothing more alluring to him right now than an open and honest Dean. But it's not going to happen. Not now. Maybe… Maybe one day they'll both be able to wake up and just say fuck it all, just say, "You know what? Maybe incest won't buy us a one-way ticket down to hell. Maybe God will finally cut us a frigging break." And maybe he will, but for now, Dean's too busy living with the rusty switch inside him that seems to be eternally stuck on _Save Sam_. And Sam's too busy trying to turn off his own stubborn button that reads _Save Dean_.

Lying there in the darkness, so close yet so far apart, they're trying with every fiber they have to go back to being just two brothers. But it's a torturous struggle indeed when their hearts keep shouting in their ears to push past that title filled with so many boundaries and just be the fucking lovers they want to be. But the harsh truth is that they've both been to hell, seen and experienced its wicked torture first hand. And after having served long stints in the fiery pits, the damage done to both their souls is just so deeply and completely ingrained. So, although they may be hunters, even experts in their supernatural trade, that's still fear keeping them from truly crossing that final line. But then again, when they've tasted the sulfuric flames and endured the continuous carve of their skin and felt the meat fall from their bones as they have … can you really blame them?

After all, some of the deepest scars are never seen and sometimes not even time can heal all things.

_~Fin_


End file.
